UC-NRLF 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


SELECTED    FROM  THE 


States  Sttcrars  <8fa?ettr* 


BOSTON: 

CUMMINGS,  BILLIARD  AND  COMPANY, 
AND  HARRISON  GRAY, 

1826. 


DISTRICT  OF  MASSACHUSETTS,  to  wit  .• 

District  Clerk's  Office. 

BE  IT  REMEMBERED,  That  on  the  second  day  of  January, 
A.  D.  1826,  in  the  Fiftieth  Year  of  the  Independence  of  the  United 
States  of  America,  CUMMINGS,  BILLIARD  AND  COMPANY, 
of  the  said  District,  have  deposited  in  this  Office  the  Title  of  a 
Book,  the  right  whereof  they  claim  as  Proprietors  in  the  Words 
following,  to  wit : 

"Miscellaneous  Poems,  selected  from  the  United  States  Literary 
Gazette," 

In  conformity  to  the  Act  of  the  Congress  of  the  United  States, 
entitled  "  An  Act  for  the  encouragement  of  Learning,  by  securing 
the  copies  of  Maps,  Charts  and  Books,  to  the  Authors  and  Propri- 
etors of  such  Copies,  during  the  times  therein  mentioned;"  and  al- 
so to  an  Act  entitled  "  An  Act  supplementary  to  an.  Act,  entitled, 
An  Act  for  the  encouragement  of  Learning,  by  securing  the  copies 
of  Maps,  Charts  and  Books  to  the  authors  and  Proprietors  of  such 
copies  during  the  times  therein  mentioned;  and  extending  the  ben- 
efits thereof  to  the  Arts  of  Desig  ning,  Engraving  and  Etching  His- 
torical and  other  Prints." 

JNO.  W.  DAVIS, 
Clerk  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


True  &  Greene,  Printers, 
Merchants'  Hall. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

These  poems  were  originally  published  in  the 
UNITED  STATES  LITERARY  GAZETTE.  In  their 
present  form,  they  constitute  a  volume  of  American 
Poetry,  which  can  hardly  fail  to  be  acceptable  to  that 
portion  of  the  public,  who  take  a  peculiar  interest  in 
this  department  of  our  literature.  As  the  different 
pieces  are  the  productions  of  several  authors,  and  of 
a  very  miscellaneous  character,  it  was  not  thought 
expedient  to  attempt  any  systematic  arrangement  of 
them. 


M&31481 


CONTENTS  OF  THE  VOLUME. 


NAMES  OF  PIECES.  PAGE. 

To  my  Mother's  Memory  ANONYMOUS.  1 

Omnipresence  ANONYMOUS.  3 

Hymn  of  the  Waldenses  BRYANT.  4 
To  an  unknown  Flower  in  a  seclud- 
ed Spot  ANONYMOUS.  5 
To  S****,  Weeping  ANONYMOUS.  7 
The  Murdered  Traveller  BRYANT.  9 
The  Old  Man's  Funeral  BRYANT.  10 

Dirge  over  a  nameless  Grave  LONGFELLOW.  12 

A  Last  Wish  ANONYMOUS.  13 
An  Indian  at  the  Buryingplace  of 

his  Fathers  BRYANT.  15 

The  Graves  of  the  Patriots  PERCIVAL.  18 

Monument  Mountain  BRYANT.  20 

uines  from  a  Traveller's  Port  Folio  JONE  s .  25 

The  Rivulet  BRYANT.  27 

Morning  among  the  Hills  PERCIVAL.  30 

breams  JONES.  34 

Dream  of  the  Sea  MELLEN.  36 

The  Mythology  of  Greece  PERCIVAL.  40 

A  Hymn  BRYANT.  43 

Thanksgiving  LONGFELLOW.  47 

(Spring  PERCIVAL.  50 


11 

Sonnet  BRYANT. 

Sonnet  BRYANT. 

Sunrise  on  the  Hills  LONGFELLOW. 

The  Spirit  of  Beauty  DA  WES. 

Song  DA  WES. 
Song  of  the  Grecian  Amazon         BRYANT. 
Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns          LONGFELLOW. 

Love  Asleep  ANONYMOUS. 

Song  BRYANT. 

The  Grecian  Partizan  BRYANT. 

The  Indian  Hunter  LONGFELLOW. 

An  Indian  Story  BRYANT. 

The  Soul  of  Song  PERCIVAL. 

The  Desolate  City  PERCIVAL. 

To  Genevieve  DA  WES. 

The  Angler's  Song  LONGFELLOW. 

Hymn  to  the  North  Star  BRYANT. 

Song  of  the  Stars  BRYANT. 

<l  The  memory  of  joys  that  are  past"  PERCIVAL. 

The  Lapse  of  Time  BRYANT. 

Inscription  PERCIVAL. 

Sonnet  to BRYANT. 

Sonnet  PERCIVAL. 

Dion's  Dream  JONES. 

The  Gladiator  JONES. 

True  Greatness  PERCIVAL. 

March  BRYANT. 

An  April  Day  LONGFELLOW. 

The  Reign  of  May  PERCIVAL. 


Ill 

After  a  Tempest  BRYANT.  98 
Summer  Wind  BRYANT.  100 
Autumn  LONGFELLOW.  102 
Morning  Twilight  PERCIVAL.  104 
To  a  Cloud  BRYANT.  105 
Autumnal  Nightfall  LONGFELLOW.  106 
Autumn  Woods  BRYANT.  108 
Autumnal  Hymn  of  the  Husband- 
man JONES.  110 
Woods  in  Winter  LONGFELLOW.  Ill 
A  Song  of  Savoy  LONGFELLOW.  113 
Rebecca  to  Rowena  ANONYMOUS.  114 
Painting — a  Personification  PERCIVAL.  116 
Rizpah  BRYANT.  121 
Sonnet  PERCIVAL.  124 
The  perpetual  Youth  of  Nature — A 

Soliloquy  PERCIVAL.        125 

Mount  Washington  MELLEN.          128 

Sunrise  from  Mount  Washington  DA  WES.  129 

Sonnet  PERCIVAL.        131 
The  last  Song  of  the  Greek  Patriot  PERCIVAL.        132 

Grecian  Liberty  PERCIVAL.        134 

Time  and  Beauty  ANONYMOUS.     139 

A  Vision  PERCIVAL.        141 

Italy — a  Conference  PERCIVAL.        143 

Italian  Scenery  LONGFELLOW.  148 

The  Fair  Italian  PERCIVAL.        151 

The  Venetian  Gondolier  LONGFELLOW.  155 

Euthanasia  JONES.              157 


A  Song  over  the  Grave  of  a  Lover  ANONYMOUS.    158 
Reformed  Tom  Bell  JONES.  160 

A  Moor's  Curse  on  Spain  JONES.  165 

The  Sea  Diver  LONGFELLOW.  168 

Sardanapalus   at  the  Temple  of 
Belus  JONES.  170 


POEMS, 


SELECTED    FROM    THE 
UNITED  STATES  LITERARY  GAZETTE. 


TO  MY  MOTHER'S  MEMORY. 

My  Mother !  weary  years  have  passed,  since  last 
I  met  thy  gentle  smile  ;  and  sadly  then 
It  fell  upon  my  young  and  joyous  heart. 
There  was  a  mortal  paleness  on  thy  cheek, 
And  well  I  knew,  they  bore  thee  far  away 
With  a  vain  hope  to  mend  the  broken  springs — 
The  springs  of  life.     And  bitter  tears  I  shed 
In  childhood's  short-lived  agony  of  grief, 
When  soothing  voices  said  that  thou  wert  gone, 
And  that  I  must  not  weep  for  thou  wert  blest. 
Full  many  a  flower  has  bloomed  upon  thy  grave, 
And  many  a  winter's  snow  has  melted  there ; 
Childhood  has  passed,  and  youth  is  passing  now, 
And  scatters  paler  roses  on  my  path  ; 
Dun  and  more  dim  my  fancy  paints  thy  form, 
Thy  mild  blue  eye,  thy  cheek  so  thin  and  fair, 


Touched,  when  I  saw  thee  last,  with  hectic  flush, 
Telling,  in  solemn  beauty,  of  the  grave. 
Mine  ear  hath  lost  the  accents  of  thy  voice, 
And  faintly  o'er  my  memory  comes  at  times 
A  glimpse  of  joys  that  had  their  source  in  thee, 
Like  one  brief  strain  of  some  forgotton  song. 
And  then  at  times  a  blessed  dream  comes  down, 
Missioned,  perhaps,  by  thee  from  brighter  realms ; 
And  wearing  all  the  semblance  of  thy  form, 
Gives  to  my  heart  the  joy  of  days  gone  by. 
With  gushing  tears  I  wake  ;  O,  art  thou  not 
Unseen  and  bodiless  around  my  path, 
Watching  with  brooding  love  about  thy  child  ? 
Is  it  not  so,  my  mother  ?  I  will  not 
Think  it  a  fancy,  wild,  and  vain,  and  false, 
That  spirits  good  and  pure  as  thine,  descend 
Like  guardian  angels  round  the  few  they  loved, 
Oft  intercepting  coming  woes,  and  still 
Joying  on  every  beam  that  gilds  our  paths ; 
And  waving  snowy  pinions  o'er  our  heads 
When  midnight  slumbers  close  our  aching  eye?. 


3 

OMNIPRESENCE. 

There  is  an  unseen  Power  around, 

Existing  in  the  silent  air  ; 
Where  treadeth  Man,  where  space  is  found, 

Unheard,  unknown,  that  Power  is  there. 

And  not  when  bright  and  busy  Day 
Is  round  us  with  its  crowds  and  cares, 

And  not  when  Night  with  solemn  sway 

Bids  awe-hushed  souls  breathe  forth  in  prayers- 

Not  when  on  sickness'  weary  couch 

He  writhes  with  pain's  deep,  long  drawn  groan, 
Not  when  his  steps  in  freedom  touch 

The  fresh  green  turf — is  man  alone* 

In  proud  Belshazzar's  gilded  hall, 

'Mid  music,  lights,  and  revelry,-— 
That  Present  Spirit  looked  on  all, 

From  crouching  slave,  to  royalty. 

When  sinks  the  pious  Christian's  soul, 
And  scenes  of  horror  daunt  his  eye, 

He  hears  it  whispered  through  the  air, 
"  A  Power  of  Mercy  still  is  nigh." 

The  Power  that  watches,  guides,  defends, 

Till  man  becomes  a  lifeless  sod, 
Till  earth  is  nought, — nought,  earthly  friends, — 

That  omnipresent  Power — is  God, 


HYMN  OF  THE  WALDENSE& 

Hear,  father,  hear  thy  faint  afflicted  flock 
Cry  to  thee,  from  the  desert  and  the  rock  ; 
While  those,  who  seek  to  slay  thy  children,  hold 
Blasphemous  worship  under  roofs  of  gold  ; 
And  the  broad  goodly  lands,  with  pleasant  airs 
That  nurse  the  fruit  and  wave  the  grain,  are  theirs. 

Yet  better  were  this  mountain  wilderness, 
And  this  \vild  life  of  danger  and  distress — 
Watchings  by  night  and  perilous  flight  by  day, 
And  meetings  in  the  depths  of  earth  to  pray, 
Better,  far  better,  than  to  kneel  with  them, 
And  pay  the  impious  rite  thy  laws  condemn. 

Thou,  Lord,  dost  hold  the  thunder ;  the  firm  land 
Tosses  in  billows  when  it  feels  thy  hand ; 
Thou  dashest  nation  against  nation,  then 
Stillest  the  angry  world  to  peace  again. 
Oh  touch  their  stony  hearts  who  hunt  thy  sons — 
The  murderers  of  our  wives  and  little  ones. 

Yet,  mighty  God,  yet  shall  thy  frown  look  forth 
Unveiled,  and  terribly  shall  shake  the  earth. 
Then  the  foul  power  of  priestly  sin  and  all 
Its  long  upheld  idolatries  shall  fall. 
Thou  shalt  raise  up  the  trampled  and  opprest, 
And  thy  delivered  saints  shall  dwell  in  rest. 


TO  AN  UNKNOWN  FLOWER  IN  A  SECLUDED  SPOT. 

Sweet  little  flower,  so  gaily  drest, 
With  nature's  charms  so  richly  blest, 

Thou  giv'st  me  pleasure. 
Although  thy  name  I  know  it  not, 
I'll  meditate  upon  thy  lot, 

Now  I'm  at  leisure. 

On  beauty's  bosom  thou  may'st  lie, 
There  lose  thy  perfume,  and  there  die  ; 

A  happy  death ! 

Or,  battered  by  the  tempest  storm, 
Bow  down  thy  weak  and  slender  form 

Before  its  breath, 

Or,  torn  away  by  whirlwind's  blast, 
Borne  high  in  air,  at  length  be  cast 

Upon  the  ground. 

Or,  parched  by  drought,  may'st  droop  away, 
Return  again  to  humble  clay, 

Nor  more  be  found. 

Or,  taken  from  thy  native  place 

By  pious  children's  hands,  may'st  grace 

A  parent's  grave ; 
Or,  severed  from  thy  taper  stem 
To  deck  the  vernal  diadem, 

O'er  beauty  wave. 

A3 


Or,  o'er  the  seas  in  safety  borne, 
With  glowing  colours  may'st  adorn 

A  foreign  land  ; 

Or,  in  some  regal  hot-house  placed, 
Although  by  other  flowers  it's  graced, 

A  wonder  stand. 

Or,  'scaped  from  tempests,  drought,  and  men, 
Unhurt  thy  petals,  leaves,  or  stem, 

Thou  here  may'st  stay  ; 
And,  having  spread  thy  odours  round, 
And  strown  thy  leaves  upon  the  ground, 

Then  pass  away. 

Sweet  little  flower,  in  thee  I  see 
An  emblem  of  mortality 

And  man's  sad  fate. 
Like  thine,  thus  dubious  is  his  lot, 
Not  sure  to  live  in  any  spot, 

Or  any  state  : 

Sometimes  he's  tost  on  trouble's  billow ; 
Sometimes  he  rests  on  fortune's  pillow  ; 

A  varied  lot ! 

And  having  passed  through  hope  and  fear, 
A  short  but  turbulent  career, 

He's  soon  forgot. 


TO  S****,  WEEPING. 

Why  shouldst  thou  weep  ?  no  cause  hast  thou 

For  one  desponding  sigh  ; 
No  care  has  marked  that  polished  brow, 

Nor  dimmed  thy  radiant  eye. 

Why  shouldst  thou  weep  ?  around  thee  glows 

The  purple  light  of  youth, 
And  all  thy  looks  the  calm  disclose 

Of  innocence  and  truth. 

Nay,  weep  not  while  thy  sun  shines  bright, 

And  cloudless  is  thy  day, 
While  past  and  present  joys  unite 

To  cheer  thee  on  thy  way  ; 

While  fond  companions  round  thee  move 

To  youth  and  nature  true, 
And  friends  whose  looks  of  anxious  love 

Thy  every  step  pursue. 

Nay,  weep  not  now — reserve  thy  tears, 

For  that  approaching  hour, 
When  o'er  the  scenes  of  other  years 

The  clouds  of  time  shall  lower. 

When  thou,  alas  !  no  more  canst  see, 

But  in  the  realms  above, 
The  friends  who  ever  looked  on  thee 

Unutterable  love  ! 


8 

When  some,  thy  fond  companions  now 

And  constant  to  thy  side, 
View  thee  with  anger-darkening  brow, 

Or  cold  repulsive  pride. 

Or  some,  the  faithful  of  that  band, 
Bless  thee  with  faltering  breath, 

While  from  their  lips  thy  trembling  hand 
Wipes  the  chill  dews  of  death. 

Nay,  weep  not  now — reserve  thy  tears        • 

For  that  approaching  day, 
When  through  the  gradual  lapse  of  years 

All  joys  have  stolen  away  ; 

When  Memory  a  wavering  light 

Sheds  dimly  o'er  the  past, 
And  Hope  no  longer  veils  from  sight 

The  horrors  of  the  last. 

Nay,  weep  not  then — let  but  the  ray 

Of  heavenly  peace  be  thine, 
Glorious  shall  be  thy  summer's  day, 

Unclouded  its  decline. 

Then  Memory's  light,  though  dim,  shall  show 

How  pure  thy  former  years, 
While  hope  her  holiest  ray  shall  throw, 

On  realms  beyond  the  spheres. 


THE  MURDERED  TRAVELLER. 

When  Spring  to  woods  and  wastes  around, 

Brought  bloom  and  joy  again  ; 
The  murdered  traveller's  bones  were  found. 

Far  down  a  narrow  glen. 

The  fragrant  birch,  above  him,  hung 

Her  tassels  in  the  sky  ; 
And  many  a  vernal  blossom  sprung, 

And  nodded,  careless,  by. 

The  red-bird  warbled,  as  he  wrought 

His  hanging  nest  o'erhead, 
And  fearless  near  the  fatal  spot, 

Her  young  the  partridge  led. 

But  there  was  weeping  far  away, 

And  gentle  eyes,  for  him, 
With  watching  many  an  anxious  day, 

Grew  sorrowful  and  dim. 

They  little  knew,  who  loved  him  so, 

The  fearful  death  he  met, 
When  shouting  o'er  the  desert  snow, 

Unarmed,  and  hard  beset. 

Nor  how  when  round  the  frosty  pole 

The  northern  dawn  was  red, 
The  mountain  wolf  and  wild-cat  stole 

To  banquet  on  the  dead. 


10 

Nor  how,  when  strangers  found  his  bones, 

They  dressed  the  hasty  bier, 
And  marked  his  grave  with  nameless  stones, 

Unmoistened  by  a  tear. 

But  long  they  looked,  and  feared,  and  wept, 

Within  his  distant  home  ; 
And  dreamed,  and  started  as  they  slept, 

For  joy  that  he  was  come. 

So  long  they  looked — but  never  spied 

His  welcome  step  again, 
Nor  knew  the  fearful  death  he  died 

Far  down  that  narrow  glen. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  FUNERAL. 

I  saw  an  aged  man  upon  his  bier, 

His  hair  was  thin  and  white,  and  on  his  brow 
A  record  of  the  cares  of  many  a  year  ; — 

Cares,  that  were  ended  and  forgotten  now. 
And  there  was  sadness  round,  and  faces  bowed, 
And  woman's  tears  fell  fast  and  children  wailed  aloud. 

Then  rose  another  hoary  man  and  said, 
In  faltering  accents,  to  that  weeping  train, 

Why  mourn  ye,  that  our  aged  friend  is  dead  ? 
Ye  are  not  sad  to  see  the  gathered  grain, 


11 

Nor  when  their  mellow  fruit  the  orchards  cast, 
Nor  when  the  yellow  woods  shake  down  the  ripened 
mast. 

Ye  sigh  not  when  the  sun,  his  course  fulfilled, 
His  glorious  course,  rejoicing  earth  and  sky, 

In  the  soft  evening,  when  the  winds  are  stilled, 
Sinks  where  his  islands  of  refreshment  lie, 

And  leaves  the  smile  of  his  departure,  spread 

O'er  the  warm-coloured  heaven  and  ruddy  mountain 
head. 

Why  weep  ye  then  for  him,  who,  having  run 
The  bound  of  man's  appointed  years,  at  last, 

Life's  blessings  all  enjoyed,  life's  labours  done, 
Serenely  to  his  final  rest  has  past ; 

While  the  soft  memory  of  his  virtues,  yet 

Lingers  like  twilight  hues,  when  the  bright  sun  is  set. 

His  youth  was  innocent ;  his  riper  age, 

Marked  with  some  act  of  goodness,  every  day  ; 

And  watched  by  eyes  that  loved  him,  calm,  and  sage, 
Faded  his  late  declining  years  away. 

Cheerful  he  gave  his  being  up,  and  went 

To  share  the  holy  rest  that  waits  a  life  well  spent. 

That  life  was  happy  ;  every  day  he  gave 
Thanks  for  the  fair  existence  that  was  his  ; 

For  a  sick  fancy  made  him  not  her  slave, 
To  mock  him  with  her  phantom  miseries. 


12 

No  chronic  tortures  racked  his  aged  limb, 

For  luxury  and  sloth  had  nourished  none  for  him. 

And  I  am  glad,  that  he  has  lived  thus  long, 
And  glad,  that  he  has  gone  to  his  reward ; 

Nor  deem,  that  kindly  nature  did  him  wrong, 
Softly  to  disengage  the  vital  cord. 

When  his  weak  hand  grew  palsied,  and  his  eye 

Dark  with  the  mists  of  age,  it  was  his  time  to  die. 


DIRGE  OVER  A  NAMELESS  GRAVE. 

By  yon  still  river,  where  the  wave 
Is  winding  slow  at  evening's  close, 

The  beech,  upon  a  nameless  grave, 
Its  sadly-moving  shadow  throws. 

O'er  the  fair  woods  the  sun  looks  down 
Upon  the  many  twinkling  leaves, 

And  twilight's  mellow  shades  are  brown, 
Where  darkly  the  green  turf  upheaves. 

The  river  glides  in  silence  there, 
And  hardly  waves  the  sapling  tree  : 

Sweet  flowers  are  springing,  and  the  air 
Is  full  of  balm, — but  where  is  she  ! 

They  bade  her  wed  a  son  of  pride, 

And  leave  the  hopes  she  cherished  long : 


13 

She  loved  but  one, — and  would  not  hide 
A  love  which  knew  no  wrong-. 

And  months  went  sadly  on, — and  years : — 
And  she  was  wasting  day  by  day  : 

At  length  she  died, — and  many  tears 
Were  shed  that  she  should  pass  away. 

Then  came  a  gray  old  man,  and  knelt 
With  bitter  weeping  by  her  tomb  : — 

And  others  mourned  for  him,  who  felt 
That  he  had  sealed  a  daughter's  doom. 

The  funeral  train  has  long  past  on, 
And  time  wiped  dry  a  father's  tear ! 

Farewell, — lost  maiden ! — there  is  one 
That  mourns  thee  yet, — and  he  is  here. 


A  LAST  WISH. 

When  breath  and  sense  have  left  this  clay, 

In  yon  damp  vault,  oh  !  lay  me  not ! 

But  kindly  bear  my  bones  away 

To  some  lone,  green,  and  sunny  spot ; 

Where  few  shall  be  the  feet  that  tread 

With  reckless  haste  upon  my  grave  ; 

And  gently  o'er  my  last,  still  bed 

To  whispering  winds  the  grass  shall  wave. 


14 

The  wild  flowers  too,  I  loved  so  well, 
Shall  blow  and  breathe  their  sweetness  there, 
And  all  around  my  grave  shall  tell, 
"  She  felt  that  nature's  face  was  fair." 
And  those  that  come  because  they  loved 
The  mouldering  frame  that  lies  below, 
Shall  find  their  anguish  half  removed, 
While  that  sweet  spot  shall  soothe  their  wo. 
The  notes  of  happy  birds  alone 
Shall  there  disturb  the  silent  air ; 
And  when  the  cheerful  sun  goes  down, 
His  beams  shall  linger  longest  there. 
And  if, — when  soft  night  breezes  wake, 
Roving  among  the  sleeping  flowers, 
When  dews  their  airy  home  forsake, 
To  rest  till  morn  in  earthly  bowers, — 
If  then  some  dearer  friend  than  all 
Steal  to  my  grave  to  weep  awhile, 
And  happier  hours  awhile  recall, 
And  bid  fond  Memory  beguile 
The  tediousness  of  cherished  grief— 
Faintly  descried — a  fading  ray — 
My  passing  ghost  shall  breathe  relief, 
And  whisper — "  Lingerer !  come  away  !'* 


-  15 


AN  INDIAN  AT  THE  BURYING-PLACE  OF  HIS  FATHERS. 

It  is  the  spot  I  came  to  seek,— 

My  fathers'  ancient  burial-place, 
Ere  from  these  vales,  ashamed  and  weak, 

Withdrew  our  wasted  race. 
It  is  the  spot, — I  know  it  well — 
Of  which  our  old  traditions  tell. 

For  here  the  upland  bank  sends  out 

A  ridge  toward  the  river  side  ; 
I  know  the  shaggy  hills  about, 

The  meadow  smooth  and  wide  ; 
The  plains,  that,  toward  the  southern  sky, 
Fenced  east  and  west  by  mountains  lie. 

A  white  man,  gazing  on  the  scene, 

Would  say  a  lovely  spot  was  here, 
And  praise  the  lawns  so  fresh  arid  green 

Between  the  hills  so  sheer. 
I  like  it  not — I  would  the  plain 
Lay  in  its  tall  old  groves  again.. 

The  sheep  are  on  the  slopes  around, 

The  cattle  in  the  meadows  feed, 
And  labourers  turn  the  crumbling  ground: 

Or  drop  the  yellow  seed, 
And  prancing  steeds,  in  trappings  gay. 
Whirl  the  bright  chariot  o'er  the  way. 


16 

Methinks  it  were  a  nobler  sight 

To  see  these  vales  in  woods  arrayed, 

Their  summits  in  the  golden  light, 
Their  trunks  in  grateful  shade, 

And  herds  of  deer,  that  bounding  go 

O'er  rills  and  prostrate  trees  below. 

And  then  to  mark  the  lord  of  all, 
The  forest  hero,  trained  to  wars, 

Quivered  and  plumed,  and  lithe  and  tall, 
And  seamed  with  glorious  scars, 

Walk  forth,  amid  his  reign,  to  dare 

The  wolf,  and  grapple  with  the  bear. 

This  bank,  in  which  the  dead  were  laid, 
Was  sacred  when  its  soil  was  ours  ; 

Hither  the  artless  Indian  maid 

Brought  wreaths  of  beads  and  flowers, 

And  the  gray  chief  and  gifted  seer 

Worshipped  the  God  of  thunders  here. 

But  now  the  wheat  is  green  and  high 
On  clods  that  hid  the  warrior's  breast, 

And  scattered  in  the  furrows  lie 
The  weapons  of  his  rest, 

And  there,  in  the  loose  sand,  is  thrown 

Of  his  large  arm  the  mouldering  bone. 

Ah  little  thought  the  strong  and  brave, 

Who  bore  their  lifeless  chieftain  forth  ; 
Or  the  young  wife,  that  weeping  gave 


17 

Her  first-born  to  the  earth, 
That  the  pale  race,  who  waste  us  now, 
Among  their  bones  should  guide  the  plough. 

They  waste  us — aye — like  April  snow 
In  the  warm  noon,  we  shrink  away  ; 

And  fast  they  follow,  as  we  go 
Towards  the  setting  day, — 

Till  they  shall  fill  the  land,  and  we 

Are  driven  into  the  western  sea. 

But  I  behold  a  fearful  sign, 

To  which  the  white  men's  eyes  are  blind  ; 
Their  race  may  vanish  hence,  like  mine, 

And  leave  no  trace  behind, 
Save  ruins  o'er  the  region  spread, 
And  the  white  stones  above  the  dead. 

Before  these  fields  were  shorn  and  tilled, 
Full  to  the  brim  our  rivers  flowed  ; 

The  melody  of  waters  filled 
The  fresh  and  boundless  wood ; 

And  torrents  dashed,  and  rivulets  played, 

And  fountains  spouted  in  the  shade. 

Those  grateful  sounds  are  heard  no  more, 
The  springs  are  silent  in  the  sun, 

The  rivers,  by  the  blackening  shore, 
With  lessening  current  run ; 

The  realm  our  tribes  are  crushed  to  get 

May  be  a  barren  desert  yet. 
B2 


18 


THE  GRAVES  OF  THE  PATRIOTS. 

Here  rest  the  great  and  good — here  they  repose 

After  their  generous  toil.     A  sacred  band, 

They  take  their  sleep  together,  while  the  year 

Comes  with  its  early  flowers  to  deck  their  graves, 

And  gathers  them  again,  as  Winter  frowns. 

Theirs  is  no  vulgar  sepulchre — green  sods 

Are  all  their  monument,  and  yet  it  tells 

A  nobler  history,  than  pillared  piles, 

Or  the  eternal  pyramids.    They  need 

No  statue  nor  inscription  to  reveal 

Their  greatness.    It  is  round  them,  and  the  joy 

With  which  their  children  tread  the  hallowed  ground 

That  holds  their  venerated  bones,  the  peace 

That  smiles  on  all  they  fought  for,  and  the  wealth 

That  clothes  the  land  they  rescued, — these,  though 

mute, 

As  feeling  ever  is  when  deepest, — these 
Are  monuments  more  lasting,  than  the  fanes 
Reared  to  the  kings  and  demigods  of  old. 

Touch  not  the  ancient  elms,  that  bend  their  shade 
Over  their  lowly  graves  ;  beneath  their  boughs 
There  is  a  solemn  darkness,  even  at  noon, 
Suited  to  such  as  visit  at  the  shrine 
Of  serious  liberty.     No  factious  voice 
Called  them  unto  the  field  of  generous  fame. 
But  the  pure  consecrated  love  of  home. 


19 

No  deeper  feeling  sways  us,  when  it  wakes 
In  all  its  greatness.     It  has  told  itself 
To  the  astonished  gaze  of  awe-struck  kings, 
At  Marathon,  at  Bannockburn,  and  here, 
Where  first  our  patriots  sent  the  invader  back 
Broken  and  cowed.    Let  these  green  elms  be  all 
To  tell  us  where  they  fought,  and  where  they  lie. 
Their  feelings  were  all  nature,  and  they  need 
No  art  to  make  them  known.    They  live  in  us, 
While  we  are  like  them,  simple,  hardy,  bold, 
Worshipping  nothing  but  our  own  pure  hearts, 
And  the  one  universal  Lord.    They  need 
No  column  pointing  to  the  heaven  they  sought, 
To  tell  us  of  their  home.     The  heart  itself, 
Left  to  its  own  free  purpose,  hastens  there, 
And  there  alone  reposes.    Let  these  elms 
Bend  their  protecting  shadow  o'er  their  graves, 
And  build  with  their  green  roof  the  only  fane, 
Where  we  may  gather  on  the  hallowed  day, 
That  rose  to  them  in  blood,  and  set  in  glory. 
Here  let  us  meet,  and  while  our  motionless  lips 
Give  not  a  sound,  and  all  around  is  mute 
In  the  deep  sabbath  of  a  heart  too  full 
For  words  or  tears — here  let  us  strew  the  sod 
With  the  first  flowers  of  spring,  and  make  to  them 
An  offering  of  the  plenty,  Nature  gives, 
And  they  have  rendered  ours — -perpetually. 


MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN. 

Thou  who  would'st  see  the  lovely  and  the  wild 

Mingled  in  harmony  on  Nature's  face, 

Ascend  our  rocky  mountains.    Let  thy  foot 

Fail  not  with  weariness,  for  on  their  tops 

The  beauty  and  the  majesty  of  earth 

Spread  wide  beneath,  shall  make  thee  to  forget 

The  steep  and  toilsome  way.     There,  as  thou  stand'sf 

The  haunts  of  men  below  thee,  and  above 

The  mountain  summits,  thy  expanding  heart 

Shall  feel  a  kindred  with  that  loftier  world 

To  which  thou  art  translated,  and  partake 

The  enlargement  of  thy  vision.     Thou  shalt  look 

Upon  the  green  and  rolling  forest  tops, 

And  down  into  the  secrets  of  the  glens, 

And  streams,  that  with  their  bordering  thickets  strive 

To  hide  their  windings.     Thou  shalt  gaze,  at  once, 

Here  on  white  villages  and  tilth  and  herds 

And  swarming  roads,  and  there  on  solitudes 

That  only  hear  the  torrent  and  the  wind 

And  eagle's  shriek.    There  is  a  precipice 

That  seems  a  fragment  of  some  mighty  wall 

Built  by  the  hand  that  fashioned  the  old  world 

To  separate  its  nations,  and  thrown  down 

When  the  flood  drowned  them.    To  the  north  a  path 

Conducts  you  up  the  narrow  battlement. 

Steep  is  the  western  side,  shaggy  and  wild 

With  mossy  trees,  and  pinnacles  of  flint, 


And  many  a  hanging  crag.    But,  to  the  east, 

Sheer  to  the  vale  go  down  the  bare  old  cliffs, — 

Huge  pillars,  that  in  middle  heaven  upbear 

Their  weather-beaten  capitals,  here  dark 

With  the  thick  moss  of  centuries,  and  there 

Of  chalky  whiteness  where  the  thunderbolt 

Has  splintered  them.    It  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  stand  upon  the  beetling  verge,  and  see 

Where  storm  and  lightning,  from  that  huge  gray  wallr 

Have  tumbled  down  vast  blocks,  and  at  the  base 

Dashed  them  in  fragments,  and  to  lay  thine  ear 

Over  the  dizzy  depth,  and  hear  the  sound 

Of  winds,  that  struggle  with  the  woods  below, 

Come  up  like  ocean  murmurs.     But  the  scene 

Is  lovely  round  ;  a  beautiful  river  there 

Wanders  amid  the  fresh  and  fertile  meads, 

The  paradise  he  made  unto  himself, 

Mining  the  soil  for  ages.     On  each  side 

The  fields  swell  upward  to  the  hills  ;  beyond, 

Above  the  hills,  in  the  blue  distance,  rise 

The  mighty  columns  with  which  earth  props  heaven. 

There  is  a  tale  about  these  gray  old  rocks, 
A  sad  tradition  of  unhappy  love 
And  sorrows  borne  and  ended,  long  ago, 
When  over  these  fair  vales  the  savage  sought 
His  game  in  the  thick  woods.     There  was  a  maid, 
The  fairest  of  the  Indian  maids,  bright-eyed, 
With  wealth  of  raven  tresses,  a  light  form, 
And  a  gay  heart.    About  her  cabin  door 


The  wide  old  woods  resounded  with  her  song 
And  fairy  laughter  all  the  summer  day. 
She  loved  her  cousin ;  such  a  love  was  deemed 
By  the  morality  of  those  stern  tribes, 
Incestuous,  and  she  struggled  hard  and  long 
Against  her  love,  and  reasoned  with  her  heart 
As  simple  Indian  maiden  might.    In  vain. 
Then  her  eye  lost  its  lustre  and  her  step 
Its  lightness,  and  the  gray  old  men  that  passed 
Her  dwelling,  wondered  that  they  heard  no  more 
The  accustomed  song  and  laugh  of  her,  whose  looks 
Were  like  the  cheerful  smile  of  Spring,  they  said, 
Upon  the  Winter  of  their  age.     She  went 
To  weep  where  no  eye  saw,  and  was  not  found 
When  all  the  merry  girls  were  met  to  dance, 
And  all  the  hunters  of  the  tribe  were  out ; 
Nor  when  they  gathered  from  the  rustling  husk 
The  shining  ear  ;  nor  when,  by  the  river  side, 
They  pulled  the  grape  and  startled  the  wild  shades 
With  sounds  of  mirth.    The  keen-eyed  Indian  dames 
Would  whisper  to  each  other,  as  they  saw 
Her  wasting  form,  and  say,  The  girl  will  die. 

One  day  into  the  bosom  of  a  friend, 
A  playmate  of  her  young  and  innocent  years, 
She  poured  her  griefs.    Thou  know'st,  and  thou  alone, 
She  said,  for  I  have  told  thee,  all  my  love 
And  guilt  and  sorrow.    I  am  sick  of  life. 
All  night  I  weep  in  darkness,  and  the  morn 
Glares  on  me,  as  upon  a  thing  accurst, 
That  has  no  business  on  the  earth.    I  hate 


23 

The  pastimes  and  the  pleasant  toils  that  oncE 
I  loved ;  the  cheerful  voices  of  my  friends 
Have  an  unnatural  horror  in  mine  ear. 
In  dreams,  my  mother,  from  the  land  of  souls, 
Calls  me  and  chides  me.     All  that  look  on  me 
Do  seem  to  know  my  shame  ;  I  cannot  bear 
Their  eyes  ;  I  cannot  from  my  heart  root  out 
The  love  that  wrings  it  so,  and  I  must  die. 

It  was  a  Summer  morning  and  they  went 
To  this  old  precipice.    About  the  cliffs, 
Lay  garlands,  ears  of  maize,  and  skins  of  wolf 
And  shaggy  bear,  the  offerings  of  the  tribe 
Here  made  to  the  Great  Spirit,  for  they  deemedr 
Like  worshippers  of  the  elder  time,  that  God 
Doth  walk  on  the  high  places  and  affect 
The  earth-o'erlooking  mountains.     She  had  on 
The  ornaments  with  which  the  father  loved 
To  deck  the  beauty  of  his  bright-eyed  girl, 
And  bade  her  wear  when  stranger  warriors  came 
To  be  his  guests.    Here  the  friends  sat  them  down,. 
And  sung,  all  day,  old  songs  of  love  and  death, 
And  decked  the  poor  wan  victim's  hair  with  flowers, 
And  prayed  that  safe  and  swift  might  be  her  way 
To  the  calm  world  of  sunshine,  where  no  grief 
Makes  the  heart  heavy  and  the  eyelids  red. 
Beautiful  lay  the  region  of  her  tribe 
Below  her — waters  resting  in  the  embrace 
Of  the  wide  forest,  and  maize-planted  glades 
Opening  amid  the  leafy  wilderness. 
She  gazed  upon  it  long,  and  at  the  sight 


24 

Of  her  own  village  peeping  through  the  trees, 

And  her  own  dwelling,  and  the  cabin  roof 

Of  him  she  loved  with  an  unlawful  love, 

And  came  to  die  for,  a  warm  gush  of  tears 

Ran  from  her  eyes.    But  when  the  sun  grew  low 

And  the  hill  shadows  long,  she  threw  herself 

From  the  steep  rock  and  perished.  There  was  scooped 

Upon  the  mountain's  southern  slope,  a  grave ; 

And  there  they  laid  her,  in  the  very  garb 

With  which  the  maiden  decked  herself  for  death, 

With  the  same  withering  wild  flowers  in  her  hair. 

And  o'er  the  mould  that  covered  her,  the  tribe 

Built  up  a  simple  monument,  a  cone 

Of  small  loose  stones.  Thence  forward,  all  who  passed, 

Hunter  and  dame  and  virgin,  laid  a  stone 

In  silence  on  the  pile.    It  stands  there  yet. 

And  Indians  from  the  distant  West,  that  come 

To  visit  where  their  fathers'  bones  are  laid, 

Yet  tell  the  sorrowful  tale,  and  to  this  day 

The  mountain  where  the  hapless  maiden  died 

Is  called  the  Mountain  of  the  Monument. 


LINES  FROM  A  TRAVELLER'S  PORT  FOLIO. 

I  stood  upon  the  lofty  Alleghany. 
It  was  a  summer  morning — the  bright  sun 
Shone  o'er  the  mountain  tops  on  the  fair  vales, 
Which  lay  stretched  out  beneath  his  gladdening  beam. 
Calm,  peaceful  vales,  such  as  the  aged  love 
To  rest  their  wearied  limbs  upon  when  life 
Draws  near  its  close — such  as  young  lovers  seek. 
And  there  I  stood  upon  that  mountain's  browy 
And  looked  upon  the  morning  ; — far  away 
On  either  hand,  and  where  the  Ohio  glides 
Serenely  to  the  bed  of  other  waters, 
Lay  fields  of  brightly  shining  summer  grain, 
Where  lusty  arms  plied  nimble  reaping  hooks, 
And  bright-eyed  virgins,  as  of  olden  time, 
Them  followed,  and  the  yellow  sheaf  upreared. 
And  there  were  pastures  fair  beneath  mine  eye, 
And  o'er  them  grazed  innumerous  herds  and  flocks, 
The  wealth  of  the  strong  man,  who  years  ago 
Built  his  rude  cabin  by  the  beetling  brow 
Of  these  eternal  mountains,  and  sat  down, 
And  lopt  the  sycamore,  and  felled  the  oak, 
And  had  him  sons  and  daughters  born  amidst 
The  shouts  and  battle-songs  of  savage  tribes. 
And  still  I  stood  upon  that  mountain's  brow, 
And  still  it  was  the  morning.     O'er  me  past 
A  breath  from  out  the  deep  and  fearful  glen, 
Which  lay  beside  me,  fringed  with  meagre  pines— 


26 

The  shrubbery  of  the  bleak  mountain  top. 
Within  me  was  a  voice  which  bade  me  look 
Upon  the  ages  which  had  passed  away  ; — 
Upon  the  time  when  those  far-spreading-  vales 
Were  peopled  by  another  race  of  men  ; — 
The  builders  of  the  proud  sepulchral  pile 
And  architects  of  works  of  use  unknown. 
'Tis  thus  the  potent  finger  of  decay 
Saps  the  foundation  of  all  earthly  things, 
And  there  will  pass  a  very  few  brief  years 
Ere  all  who  people  this  fair  land  shall  lie 
In  the  same  grave  which  holds  her  earliest  sons. 
The  oak  shall  grow  upon  the  well  ploughed  glebe — 
The  wild  vine  leap  upon  the  nectarine's  trunk, 
And  strangle  it  with  a  too  close  embrace — 
The  thistle  shall  o'errun  the  beautiful  mead — 
The  bison  feed  upon  the  cities'  site — 
The  adder  coil  him  in  the  lady's  bower 
And  hiss  upon  the  mastodon,  as  he 
Comes  from  his  exile  of  a  thousand  years. 
xAnd  these  shall  be  because  such  things  have  been, 
For  nature  is  immutable  and  keeps 
No  chanceful  course. 


THE  RIVULET. 

This  little  rill  that,  from  the  springs 
Of  yonder  grove,  its  current  brings, 
Plays  on  the  slope  awhile,  and  then 
Goes  prattling  into  groves  again, 
Oft  to  its  warbling  waters  drew 
My  little  feet  when  life  was  new. 
When  woods  in  early  green  were  drest. 
And  from  the  chambers  of  the  west 
The  warmer  breezes,  travelling  out, 
Breathed  the  new  scent  of  flowers  about, 
My  truant  steps  from  home  would  stray, 
Upon  its  grassy  side  to  play  ; 
To  crop  the  violet  on  its  brim, 
And  listen  to  the  throstle's  hymn, 
With  blooming  cheek  and  open  brow, 
As  young  and  gay,  sweet  rill,  as  thou. 

And  when  the  days  of  boyhood  came, 
And  I  had  grown  in  love  with  fame, 
Duly  I  sought  thy  banks,  and  tried 
My  first  rude  numbers  by  thy  side. 
Words  cannot  tell  how  glad  and  gay 
The  scenes  of  life  before  me  lay. 
High  visions  then,  and  lofty  schemes 
Glorious  and  bright  as  fairy  dreams, 
And  daring  hopes,  that  now  to  speak 
Would  bring  the  blood  into  my  cheek, 


28 

Passed  o'er  me  ;  and  I  wrote  on  high 
A  name  I  deemed  should  never  die. 

Years  change  thee  not.     Upon  yon  hill 
The  tall  old  maples,  verdant  still, 
Yet  tell,  in  proud  and  grand  decay, 
How  swift  the  years  have  passed  away, 
Since  first,  a  child,  and  half  afraid, 
I  wandered  in  the  forest  shade. 
But  thou,  gay,  merry  rivulet, 
Dost  dimple,  play,  and  prattle  yet ; 
And  sporting  with  the  sands  that  pave 
The  windings  of  thy  silver  wave, 
And  dancing  to  thy  own  wild  chime, 
Thou  laughest  at  the  lapse  of  time. 
The  same  sweet  sounds  are  in  my  ear 
My  early  childhood  loved  to  hear ; 
As  pure  thy  limpid  waters  run, 
As  bright  they  sparkle  to  the  sun  ; 
As  fresh  the  herbs  that  crowd  to  drink 
The  moisture  of  thy  oozy  brink  ; 
The  violet  there,  in  soft  May  dew, 
Comes  up,  as  modest  and  as  blue  ; 
As  green  amid  thy  current's  stress, 
Floats  the  scarce-rooted  water  cress  ; 
And  the  brown  ground  bird,  in  thy  glen, 
Still  chirps  as  merrily  as  then. 

Thou  changest  not — but  I  am  changed, 
Since  first  thy  pleasant  banks  I  ranged ; 


29 

And  the  grave  stranger,  come  to  see 
The  play-place  of  his  infancy, 
Has  scarce  a  single  trace  of  him 
Who  sported  once  upon  thy  brim. 
The  visions  of  my  youth  are  past — 
Too  bright,  too  beautiful  to  last. 
Pve  tried  the  world — it  wears  no  more 
The  colouring  of  romance  it  wore. 
Yet  well  has  nature  kept  the  truth 
She  promised  to  my  earliest  youth  ; 
The  radiant  beauty,  shed  abroad 
On  all  the  glorious  works  of  God, 
Shows  freshly,  to  my  sobered  eye, 
Each  charm  it  wore  in  days  gone  by. 

A  few  brief  years  shall  pass  away, 
And  I,  all  trembling,  weak,  and  grey, 
Bowed  to  the  earth,  which  waits  to  fold 
My  ashes  in  the  embracing  mould, 
(If  haply  the  dark  will  of  fate 
Indulge  my  life  so  long  a  date) 
May  come  for  the  last  time  to  look 
Upon  my  childhood's  favourite  brook. 
Then  dimly  on  my  eye  shall  gleam 
The  sparkle  of  thy  dancing  stream  ; 
And  faintly  on  my  ear  shall  fall 
Thy  prattling  current's  merry  call ; 
Yet  shalt  thou  flow  as  glad  and  bright 
As  when  thou  met'st  my  tnfant  sisrht 


30 

And  I  shall  sleep — and  on  thy  side, 
As  ages  after  ages  glide, 
Children  their  early  sports  shall  try, 
And  pass  to  hoary  age  and  die. 
But  tliou,  unchanged  from  year  to  year, 
Gaily  shalt  play  and  glitter  here  ; 
Amid  young  flowers  and  tender  grass 
Thy  endless  infancy  shalt  pass  ; 
And,  singing  down  thy  narrow  glen, 
Shalt  mock  the  fading  race  of  men. 


MORNING  AMONG  THE  HILLS. 

A  night  had  passed  away  among  the  hills, 
And  now  the  first  faint  tokens  of  the  dawn 
Showed  in  the  cast.     The  bright  and  dewy  star, 
Whose  mission  is  to  usher  in  the  morn, 
Looked  through  the  cool  air,  like  a  blessed  thing 
In  a  far  purer  world.     Below  there  lay 
Wrapped  round  a  woody  mountain  tranquilly 
A  misty  cloud.     Its  edges  caught  the  light, 
That  now  came  up  from  out  the  unseen  depth 
Of  the  full  fount  of  day,  and  they  were  laced 
With  colours  ever-brightening.     I  had  waked 
From  a  long  sleep  of  many  changing  dreams, 
And  now  in  the  fresh  forest  air  I  stood 
Nerved  to  another  day  of  wandering. 


81 

Before  me  rose  a  pinnacle  of  rock, 

Lifted  above  the  wood  that  heftimed  it  in, 

And  now  already  glowing".     There  the  beanii 

Came  from  the  far  horizon,  and  they  wrapped  it 

In  light  and  glory.     Round  its  vapoury  cone 

A  crown  of  far-diverging  rays  shot  out, 

And  gave  to  it  the  semblance  of  an  altar 

Lit  for  the  worship  of  the  undying  flame, 

That  centred  in  the  circle  of  the  sun, 

Now  coming  from  the  ocean's  fathomless  caves, 

Anon  would  stand  in  solitary  pomp 

Above  the  loftiest  peaks,  and  cover  them 

With  splendour  as  a  garment.     Thitherward 

I  bent  my  eager  steps  ;  and  through  the  grove 

Now  dark  as  deepest  night,  and  thickets  hung 

With  a  rich  harvest  of  unnumbered  gem?, 

Waiting  the  clearer  dawn  to  catch  the  hues 

Shed  from  the  starry  fringes  of  its  veil 

On  cloud  and  mist  and  dew,  and  backward  thrown 

With  undiminished  beauty,  on  I  went 

Mounting  with  hasty  foot,  and  thence  emerging 

I  scaled  that  rocky  steep,  and  there  awaited 

Silent  the  full  appearing  of  the  sun. 

Below  there  lay  a  far  extended  sea 
Rolling  in  feathery  waves.     The  wind  blew  o'er  it, 
And  tossed  it  round  the  high  ascending  racks, 
And  swept  it  through  the  half  hidden  forest  tope, 
Till,  like  an  ocean  waking  into  storm, 
It  heaved  and  weltered.     Gloriously  the  light 
Crested  its  billows,  and  those  craggy  islands 


32 

Shone  on  it  like  to  palaces  of  spar 

Built  on  a  sea  of  pearl.     Far  overhead 

The  sky  without  a  vapour  or  a  stain, 

Intensely  blue,  even  deepened  into  purple, 

Where  nearer  the  horizon  it  received 

A  tincture  from  the  mist  that  there  dissolved 

Into  the  viewless  air, — the  sky  bent  round 

The  awful  dome  of  a  most  mighty  temple 

Built  by  omnipotent  hands  for  nothing  less 

Than  infinite  worship.     There  I  stood  in  silence* — 

I  had  no  words  to  tell  the  mingled  thoughts 

Of  wonder  and  of  joy,  that  then  came  o'er  me, 

Even  with  a  whirlwind's  rush.     So  beautiful, 

So  bright,  so  glorious  !     Such  a  majesty 

In  yon  pure  vault !  So  many  dazzling  tints 

In  yonder  waste  of  waves, — so  like  the  ocean 

With  its  unnumbered  islands  there  incircled 

By  foaming  surges,  that  the  mounting  eagle, 

Lifting  his  fearless  pinion  through  the  clouds 

To  bathe  in  purest  sunbeams,  seemed  an  ospray 

Hovering  above  his  prey,  and  yon  tall  pines, 

Their  tops  half  mantled  in  a  snowy  veil, 

A  frigate  with  full  convass,  bearing  on 

To  conquest  and  to  glory.     But  even  these, 

Had  round  them  something  of  the  lofty  air 

In  which  they  moved  ; — not  like  to  things  of  earth, 

But  heightened,  and  made  glorious,  as  became 

Such  pomp  and  splendour. 

Who  can  tell  the  brightness, 
That  every  moment  caught  a  newer  glow ; 


38 

That  circle,  with  its  centre  like  the  heart 
Of  elemental  fire,  and  spreading  out 
In  floods  of  liquid  gold  on  the  blue  sky 
And  on  the  opaline  waves,  crowned  with  a  rainbow 
Bright  as  the  arch  that  bent  above  the  throne 
Seen  in  a  vision  by  the  holy  man 
In  Patmos  !  Who  can  tell  how  it  ascended, 
And  flowed  more  widely  o'er  that  lifted  ocean 
Till  instantly  the  unobstructed  sun 
Rolled  up  his  sphere  of  fire,  floating  away—- 
Away in  a  pure  ether,  far  from  earth, 
And  all  its  clouds, — and  pouring  forth  unbounded 
His  arrowy  brightness  !    From  that  burning  centre 
At  once  there  ran  along  the  level  line 
Of  that  imagined  sea,  a  stream  of  gold — 
Liquid  and  flowing  gold,  that  seemed  to  tremble 
Even  with  a  furnace       heat,  on  to  the  point, 
Whereon  I  stood.     At  once  that  sea  of  vapour 
Parted  away,  and  melting  into  air 
Rose  round  me,  and  I  stood  involved  in  light, 
As  if  a  flame  had  kindled  up,  and  wrapped  me 
In  its  innocuous  blaze.     Away  it  rolled, 
Wave  after  wave.     Then  climbed  the  highest  rocks, 
Poured  over  them  in  surges,  and  then  rushed 
Down  glens  and  valleys,  like  a  wintry  torrent 
Dashed  instant  to  the  plain.    It  seemed  a  moment, 
And  they  were  gone,  as  if  the  touch  of  fire 
At  once  dissolved  them.     Then  I  found  myself 
Midway  in  air ; — ridge  after  ridge  below, 
Descended  with  their  opulence  of  woods 


84 

Even  to  the  dim  seen  level,  where  a  lake 
Flashed  in  the  sun,  and  from  it  wound  a  line, 
Now  silvery  bright  even  to  the  farthest  verge 
Of  the  encircling  hills.     A  waste  of  rocks 
Was  round  me — but  below  how  beautiful, 
IIow  ricii  the  plain — a  wilderness  of  groves 
And  ripening  harvests  ;  while  the  sky  of  June- 
The  soft  blue  sky  of  June,  and  the  cool  air, 
That  makes  it  then  a  luxury  to  live, 
Only  to  breathe  it,  and  the  busy  echo 
Of  cascades,  and  the  voice  of  mountain  brooks, 
Stole  with  such  gentle  meanings  to  my  heart. 
That  where  I  stood  seemed  Heaven. 


DREAMS. 

Oh  that  dreams  were  not  dreams,  for  mine  have  been 
The  shadows  of  my  hopes.     Thence  have  I  grown 
In  love  witli  ideal  forms.     In  youth  I  saw 
Most  beauteous  beings  in  mine  hours  of  sleep — 
Fair  maidens  with  their  bright  and  sunny  locks 
Falling  o'er  necks  whose  hue  was  of  the  snow, 
O'er  bosoms  whose  soft  throbbings  not  the  veil 
Of  gossamer  could  hide  from  the  tranced  eye. 
I  sawr,  when  that  my  cheek  had  lost  its  down, 
And  T  wrote  MAN,  a  world  of  glittering  words 
Writ  by  the  hand  of  health  upon  that  leaf 


35 

Of  human  life.     I  saw  bright  swords,  brave  plumes, 

And  staves  of  office — robes  of  honour — all 

That  speak  of  high  employment,  and  awards 

Of  national  emprises.     Other  thoughts 

That  were  by  day,  hopes,  and  in  slumber,  dreams, 

Came  to  me,  of  my  line  continued  in 

Illustrious  heirs.     The  boy  upon  my  knee 

Became  a  Socrates,  and  he  who  played 

With  the  dark  ringlets  on  his  mother's  brow, 

The  saviour  of  a  realm.     The  little  maid 

Who,  lost  in  mimic  tenderness,  caressed 

A  pasteboard  emblem  of  our  helpless  state, 

I  wedded  to  a  warrior,  sworn  and  pledged 

To  die  as  had  his  fathers,  at  the  call 

Of  liberty. 

Time  flew,  and  I  am  now 
An  aged  man  with  hoary  hair,  and  step 
All  trembling  ;  yet  I  entertain  a  crowd 
Of  dreams,  but  they  are  of  the  world  whereto 
Age,  and  hopes  crushed  are  hurrying  me.     I  see 
In  slumber  an  offended  God,  begirt 
With  Cherubim  around  his  hidden  throne, — 
And  angels  of  his  attributes,  the  guards 
Of  his  dominions.     They  who  represent 
Truth,  Peace,  and  Justice  ask  the  darker  doom 
Upon  my  head,  for  I  had  wildly  erred ; 
But  Mercy,  darling  child  of  the  Most  High, 
Pleads  for  me,  and  prevails.     I  hear  a  voice 
Ring  through  the  spheres  of  heaven — a  voice  of  love 
Pronouncing  pardon,  and  I  join  the  choir 
That  worships,  and  shall  worship  him  eternally. 


DREAM  OF  THE  SEA, 

1  dreamt  that  I  went  down  into  the  seal 

Unpained  amid  the  waters — and  a  world 

Of  splendid  wrecks,  formless  and  numberless^ 

Broke  on  my  vision.     It  did  seem  the  skies 

Were  o'er  me  pure  as  infancy — yet  waves 

Did  rattle  round  my  head,  and  fill  mine  ears 

Like  the  measureless  roar  of  the  far  fight 

When  battle  has  set  up  her  trumpet  shout ! 

I  seemed  to  breathe  the  air  ;  and  yet  the  sea 

Kept  dallying  with  my  life  as  I  sunk  down. 

'T  was  in  the  fitful  fashion  of  a  dream — 

Water  and  air — walking,  and  yet  no  earth. 

The  deep  seemed  bare  and  dry — and  yet  I  went 

With  a  rude  dashing  round  my  reeking  face, 

Until  my  outstretched  and  trembling  feet 

Stood  still  upon  a  bed  of  glittering  pearls  ! 

The  hot  sun  was  right  over  me,  at  noon — 

Sudden  it  withered  up  the  ocean — till 

I  seemed  amidst  a  waste  of  shapeless  clay. 

A  thousand  bones  were  whitening  in  his  ray», 

Mass  upon  mass, — confused  and  without  end. 

I  walked  on  the  parched  wilderness,  and  saw 

The  hopeless  beauty  of  a  lifeless  world  ! 

Wealth  that  once  made  some  poor  vain  heart  grow  light 

And  leap  with  it  into  the  flood,  was  there 

Clutched  in  the  last  mad  agony.     And  gold 

That  makes  of  life  a  happiness  and  curse — 


37 

That  vaunts  on  earth  its  brilliancy,  lay  here- — 
An  outcast  tyrant  in  his  loneliness — 
Beggared  by  jewels  that  ne'er  shone  through  blood 
Upon  the  brow  of  kings  !     Here  there  were  all 
The  bright  beginnings  and  the  costly  ends, 
Which  envied  man  enjoys  and  expiates, — 
Splendour,  and  death — silence,  and  human  hopes — 
Gems,  and  smooth  bones — life's  pageantry  !  the  cross 
That  thought  to  save  some  wretch  in  his  late  need 
Hugged  in  its  last  idolatry — all,  all 
Lay  here  in  deathly  brotherhood — no  breath — 
No  sympathy — no  sound — no  motion — and  no  hope  ! 
I  stood  and  listened, — 

The  eternal  flood  rushed  to  its  desolate  grave  ! 
And  I  could  hear  above  me  all  the  waves 
Go  bellowing  to  their  bounds  !  Still  I  strode  on, 
Journeying  amid  the  brightest  of  earth's  things 
Where  yet  was  never  life,  nor  hope,  nor  joy  ! 
My  eye  could  not  but  look,  and  my  ear  hear  ; 
For  now  strange  sights,  and  beautiful,  and  rare, 
Seemed  ordered  from  the  deep  through  the  rich  prism 
Above  me — and  sounds  undulated  through 
The  surges,  till  my  soul  grew  mad  with  visions  ! 
Beneath  the  canopy  of  waters  I  could  see 
Palaces  and  cities  crumbled — and  the  ships 
Sunk  in  the  engorging  whirlpool,  while  the  laugh 
Of  revelry  went  wild  along  their  decks,  and  ere 
The  oath  was  strangled  in  their  swollen  throats  ; — 
For  there  they  lay,  just  hurried  to  one  grave 
With  horrible  contortions  and  fixed  eyes 
D 


38 

Waving  among  the  cannon,  as  the  surge 

Would  slowly  lift  them — and  their  streaming  hair 

Twining  around  the  blades  that  were  their  pride. 

And  there  were  two  locked  in  each  others  arms, 

And  they  were  lovers  ! 

Oh  God,  how  beautiful !  cheek  to  cheek 

And  heart  to  heart  upon  that  splendid  deep, 

A  bridal  bed  of  pearls  ! — a  burial 

Worthy  of  two  so  young  and  innocent. 

And  they  did  seem  to  lie  there,  like  two  gems 

The  fairest  in  the  halls  of  ocean — both 

Sepulchred  in  love — a  tearless  death — one  look, 

One  wish,  one  smile,  one  mantle  for  their  shroud, 

One  hope,  one  kiss — and  that  not  yet  quite  cold ! 

How  beautiful  to  die  in  such  fidelity ! 

E'er  yet  the  curse  has  ripened,  or  the  heart 

Begins  to  hope  for  death  as  for  a  joy, 

And  feels  its  streams  grow  thicker,  till  they  cloy 

With  wishes  that  have  sickened  and  grown  old. 

I  saw  their  cheeks  were  pure  and  passionless, 

And  all  their  love  had  passed  into  a  smile. 

And  in  that  smile  they  died ! 

Sudden  a  battle  rolled  above  my  head, 
And  there  came  down  a  flash  into  the  deep 
Illumining  its  dim  chambers — and  it  past ; 
The  waters  shuddered — and  a  thousand  sounds 
Sung  hellish  echoes  through  the  caverned  waste. 
The  blast  was  screaming  on  the  upper  wave, 


39 

And  as  I  looked  above  me  I  could  see 
The  ships  go  booming-  through  the  murky  storm, 
Sails  rent — masts  staggering — and  a  spectre  crew, — 
Blood  mingled  with  the  foam  bathing  their  bows, — 
And  I  could  hear  their  shrieks  as  they  went  on 
Crying  of  murder  to  their  bloody  foes  ! 

A  form  shot  downward  close  at  my  feet ; 

His  hand  still  grasped  the  steel — and  his  red  eye 

Was  full  of  curses  even  in  his  death  ; — 

For  he  had  been  flung  into  the  abyss 

By  fellow  men  before  his  heart  was  cold  ! 

Again  I  stood  beside  the  lovely  pair  ; — 

The  storm  and  conflict  were  as  they'd  not  been. 

I  stood  and  shrieked  and  laughed,  and  yet  no  voice, 

That  I  could  hear,  came  in  my  madness  ; — 

It  hardly  seemed  that  they  were  dead — so  calm, 

So  beautiful !  the  sea-stars  round  them  shone, 

Like  emblems  of  their  souls  so  cold  and  pure  ! 

The  bending  grass  wept  silent  over  them, 

Truer  than  any  friend  on  earth — their  tomb 

The  jewelry  of  the  ocean,  and  their  dirge 

The  everlasting  music  of  its  roar, 

I  seemed  to  stand  wretched  in  dreamy  thought, 
Cursing  the  constancy  of  human  hearts 
And  vanity  of  human  hopes — and  felt 
As  I  have  felt  on  earth  in  my  sick  hours  ; — 
How  thankless  was  this  legacy  of  breath 


40 

To  those  who  knew  the  wo  of  a  scathed  brain! 
Oh  ocean — ocean!  if  thou  coverest  up 
The  ruins  of  a  proud  and  broken  soul 
And  giv'st  such  peace  and  solitude  as  this, 
Thy  depths  are  heaven  to  man's  ingratitude ! 

I  seemed  to  struggle  in  an  agony ; 

My  streaming  tears  gushed  out  to  meet  the  wave  : 

I  woke  in  terror,  and  the  beaded  sweat 

Coursed  down  my  temples  like  a  very  rain 

As  though  I  had  just  issued  from  the  sea ! 


THE  MYTHOLOGY;  OF  GREECE. 

There  was  a  time,  when  the  o'erhanging  sky, 
And  the  fair  earth  with  its  variety, 
Mountain  and  valley,  continent  and  sea, 
Were  not  alone  the  unmoving  things  that  lie 
Slumbering  beneath  the  sun's  unclouded  eye  ; 
But  every  fountain  had  its  spirit  then, 
That  held  communion  oft  with  holy  men, 
And  frequent  from  the  heavenward  mountain  came 
Bright  creatures,  hovering  round  on  wings  of  flame. 
And  some  mysterious  sybil  darkly  gave 
Responses  from  the  dim  and  hidden  cave  : — 
Voices  were  heard  waking  the  silent  air, 
A  solemn  music  echoed  from  the  wood, 


41 

And  often  from  the  bosom  of  the  flood 

Came  forth  a  sportive  Naiad  passing  fair, 

The  clear  drops  twinkling  in  her  braided  hair ; 

And  as  the  hunter  through  the  forest  strayed, 

Quick-glancing  beauty  shot  across  the  glade, 

Her  polished  arrow  levelled  on  her  bow, 

Ready  to  meet  the  fawn  or  bounding  roe  ; 

And  often  on  the  mountain  tops  the  horn 

Rang  round  the  rocky  pinnacles,  and  played 

In  lighter  echoes  from  the  chequered  shade, 

Where  through  the  silvery  leaves  at  early  morn 

Stole  the  slant  sunbeams,  shedding  on  the  grass 

Brightness,  that  quivered  with  the  quivering  mass 

Of  thickly  arching  foliage  ; — often  there 

Dian  and  all  her  troop  of  girls  were  seen 

Dancing  by  moonlight  on  the  dewy  green, 

When  the  cool  night- wind  through  the  forest  blew, 

And  every  leaf  in  tremulous  glances  flew ; 

And  in  the  cloudless  fields  of  upper  air, 

With  coldly  pale  and  melancholy  smile 

The  moon  looked  down  on  that  bright  spot,  the  while, 

Which  in  the  depth  of  darkness  shone  as  fair, 

As  in  lone  southern  seas  a  palmy  isle ; 

And  when  a  hunter-boy,  who  far  away 

Had  wandered  through  the  wild-wood  from  his  home, 

Led  by  the  eagerness  of  youth  to  roam, 

Buried  in  deep  unbroken  slumber  lay, — 

Then  as  the  full  moon  poured  her  mellow  light 

Full  on  the  mossy  pillow  where  he  slept, 

One  more  than  nymph,  in  sylvan  armour  dight, 


Bent  fondly  over  him,  and  smiled,  and  wept. 

Each  lonely  spot  was  hallowed  then— the  oak 

That  o'er  the  village  altar  hung,  would  tell 

Strange  hidden  things  ; — the  old  remembered  well, 

How  from  its  gloom  a  spirit  often  spoke. 

There  was  not  then  a  fountain  or  a  cave, 

But  had  its  reverend  oracle,  and  gave 

Responses  to  the  fearful  crowd,  who  came 

And  called  the  indwelling  Deity  by  name  ; 

Then  every  snowy  peak,  that  lifted  high 

Its  shadowy  cone  to  meet  the  bending  sky, 

Stood  like  a  heaven  of  loveliness  and  light ; — 

And  as  the  gilt  cloud  rolled  its  glory  by, 

Chariots  and  steeds  of  flame  stood  harnessed  there, 

And  gods  came  forth  and  seized  the  golden  reins, 

Shook  the  bright  scourge,  and  through  the  boundless  air 

Rode  over  starry  fields  and  azure  plains. 

It  was  a  beautiful  and  glorious  dream, 

Such  as  would  kindle  high  the  soul  of  song ; 

The  bard,  who  struck  his  harp  to  such  a  theme, 

Gathered  new  beauty  as  he  moved  along — 

His  way  was  now  through  wilds  and  beds  of  flowers ; 

Rough  mountains  met  him  now,  and  then  again 

Gay  valleys  hung  with  vines  in  woven  bowers 

Led  to  the  bright  waves  of  the  purple  main. 

All  seemed  one  bright  enchantment  then ; — but  now, 

Since  the  long  sought  for  goal  of  truth  is  won, 

Nature  stands  forth  unveiled  with  cloudless  brow, 

On  earth  ONE  SPIRIT  OF  LIFE,  in  heaven  ONE  SUN. 


43 


A  HYMN. 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples.  Ere  man  learned 

To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 

And  spread  the  roof  above  them, — ere  he  framed 

The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 

The  sound  of  anthems  ;  in  th  e  darkling  wood, 

Amidst  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down 

And  offered  to  the  Mightiest,  solemn  thanks 

And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 

Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences, 

That,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 

And  from  the  gray  old  trunks  that  high  in  heaven 

Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 

Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once 

All  their  green  tops,  stole  o'er  him,  and  bowed 

His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  power 

And  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,  why 

Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 

God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 

Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 

That  our  frail  hands  have  raised.    Let  me,  at  least, 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 

Offer  one  hymn — thrice  happy,  if  it  find 

Acceptance  in  his  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 

Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns,  thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.    Thou  didst  look  down 


44 

Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 

All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.    They,  in  thy  sun, 

Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  thy  breeze, 

And  shot  towards  heaven.     The  century-living  crow 

Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 

Among  their  branches,  till,  at  last,  they  stood, 

As  now  they  stand,  massy  and  tall  and  dark, 

Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 

Communion  with  his  Maker.     Here  are  seen 

No  traces  of  man's  pomp  or  pride ; — no  silks 

Rustle,  no  jewels  shine,  nor  envious  eyes 

Encounter  ;  no  fantastic  carvings  show 

The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 

Of  thy  fair  works.     But  thou  art  here — thou  filPst 

The  solitude.     Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 

That  run  along  the  summits  of  these  trees 

In  music  ;— thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath, 

That,  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place, 

Comes,  scarcely  felt ; — the  barky  trunks,  the  ground, 

The  fresh  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with  thee. 

Here  is  continual  worship  ; — nature,  here, 

In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love, 

Enjoys  thy  presence.     Noiselessly,  around, 

From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 

Passes ;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  'midst  its  herbs, 

Wells  softly  forth  and  visits  the  strong  roots 

Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 

Of  all  the  good  it  does.    Thou  hast  not  left 

Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades, 

Of  thy  perfections.     Grandeur,  strength,  and  grace 


45 

Are  here  to  speak  of  thee.    This  mighty  oak — 

By  whose  immoveable  stem  I  stand  and  seem 

Almost  annihilated — not  a  prince, 

In  all  the  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep, 

E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 

Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves  with  which 

Thy  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 

Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 

Of  the  broad  sun.     That  delicate  forest  flower,, 

With  scented  breath,  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 

Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 

An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 

A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 

That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 

My  heart  is  awed  within  me,  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on, 
In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.    Written  on  thy  works  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo !  all  grow  old  and  die — but  see,  again, 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth  possess — ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     Oh,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  earth's  charms  :  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies 


46 

And  yet  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch  enemy  Death — yea — seats  himself 
Upon  the  sepulchre,  and  blooms  and  smiles, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.     For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  themselves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  outlived 
The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them ; — and  there  have  been  holy  men 
Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and  in  thy  presence  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.     Here  its  enemies, 
The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink 
And  tremble  and  are  still.     Oh  God !  when  thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  sett'st  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  filPst 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament 
The  swift  dark  whirlwind  that  uproots  the  woods 
And  drowns  the  villages  ;  when,  at  thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by  ? 
Oh,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 


47 

Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the  wratfo 
Of  the  mad  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.  Be  it  ours  to  meditate 
In  these  calm  shades  thy  milder  majesty, 
And,  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works, 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 


THANKSGIVING. 

When  first  in  ancient  time,  from  Jubal's  tongue 

The  tuneful  anthem  filled  the  morning  air, 

To  sacred  hymnings  and  elysian  song 

His  music-breathing  shell  the  minstrel  woke. 

Devotion  breathed  aloud  from  every  chord  : — 

The  voice  of  praise  was  heard  in  every  tone, 

And  prayer,  and  thanks  to  Him,  the  eternal  one, — 

To  Him,  that  with  bright  inspiration  touched 

The  high  and  gifted  lyre  of  heavenly  song, 

And  warmed  the  soul  with  new  vitality. 

A  stirring  energy  through  nature  breathed  : — 

The  voice  of  adoration  from  her  broke 

Swelling  aloud  in  every  breeze,  and  heard 

Long  in  the  sullen  waterfall, — what  time 

Soft  Spring  or  hoary  Autumn  threw  on  earth 

Its  bloom  or  blighting, — when  the  Summer  smiled, 

Or  Winter  o'er  the  year's  sepulchre  mourned. 

The  Deity  was  there  ! — a  nameless  spirit 


48 

Moved  in  the  hearts  of  men  to  do  him  homage ; 
And  when  the  morning  smiled,  or  evening  pale 
Hung  weeping  o'er  the  melancholy  urn, 
They  came  beneath  the  broad  o'erarching  trees, 
And  in  their  tremulous  shadow  worshipped  oft, 
Where  the  pale  vine  clung  round  their  simple  altars, 
And  gray  moss  mantling  hung.     Above  was  heard 
The  melody  of  winds,  breathed  out  as  the  green  trees 
Bowed  to  their  quivering  touch  in  living  beauty, 
And  birds  sang  forth  their  cheerful  hymns.     Below, 
The  bright  and  widely  wandering  rivulet 
Struggled  and  gushed  amongst  the  tangled  roots, 
That  choked  its  reedy  fountain — and  dark  rocks 
Worn  smooth  by  the  constant  current.     Even  there 
The  listless  wave,  that  stole  with  mellow  voice 
Where  reeds  grew  rank  upon  the  rushy  brink, 
And  to  the  wandering  wind  the  green  sedge  bent, 
Sang  a  sweet  song  of  fixed  tranquillity. 
Men  felt  the  heavenly  influence — and  it  stole 
Like  balm  into  their  hearts,  till  all  was  peace  ; 
And  even  the  air  they  breathed, — the  light  they  saw, — 
Became  religion  ; — for  the  etherial  spirit, 
That  to  soft  music  wakes  the  chords  of  feeling 
And  mellows  every  thing  to  beauty,  moved 
With  cheering  energy  within  their  breasts, 
And  made  all  holy  there — for  all  was  love. 
The  morning  stars,  that  sweetly  sang  together — 
The  moon,  that  hung  at  night  in  the  mid-sky — 
Dayspring — and  eventide — and  all  the  fair 
And  beautiful  forms  of  nature,  had  a 


49 

Of  eloquent  worship.     Ocean  with  its  tides 

Swelling  and  deep,  where  low  the  infant  storm 

Hung  on  his  dun,  dark  cloud,  and  heavily  beat 

The  pulses  of  the  sea, — sent  forth  a  voice 

Of  awful  adoration  to  the  spirit, 

That,  wrapt  in  darkness,  moved  upon  its  face. 

And  when  the  bow  of  evening  arched  the  east, 

Or,  in  the  moonlight  pale,  the  gentle  wave 

Kissed  with  a  sweet  embrace  the  sea-worn  beach, 

And  the  wild  song  of  winds  came  o'er  the  waters, 

The  mingled  melody  of  wind  and  wave 

Touched  like  a  heavenly  anthem  on  the  ear ; 

For  it  arose  a  tuneful  hymn  of  worship. 

And  have  our  hearts  grown  cold  ?  Are  there  on  earth 

No  pure  reflections  caught  from  heavenly  love  ? — 

Have  our  mute  lips  no  hymn — our  souls  no  song  ? 

Let  him,  that  in  the  summer-day  of  youth 

Keeps  pure  the  holy  fount  of  youthful  feeling, — 

And  him,  that  in  the  nightfall  of  his  years 

Lies  down  in  his  last  sleep,  and  shuts  in  peace 

His  weary  eyes  on  life's  short  wayfaring, 

Praise  Him,  that  rules  the  destiny  of  man. 


50 


SPRING. 

Again  the  infant  flowers  of  Spring 

Call  thee  to  sport  on  thy  rainbow  wing — 

Spirit  of  Beauty  !  the  air  is  bright 

With  the  boundless  flow  of  thy  mellow  light ; 

The  woods  are  ready  to  bud  and  bloom, 

And  are  weaving  for  Summer  their  quiet  gloom : 

The  tufted  brook  reflects,  as  it  flows, 

The  tips  of  the  half-unopened  rose, 

And  the  early  bird,  as  he  carols  free, 

Sings  to  his  little  love  and  thee. 

See  how  the  clouds,  as  they  fleetly  pass, 

Throw  their  shadowy  veil  on  the  darkening  grass  : 

And  the  pattering  showers  and  stealing  dews, 

With  their  starry  gems  and  skyey  hues, 

From  the  oozy  meadow,  that  drinks  the  tide, 

To  the  sheltered  vale  on  the  mountain  side, 

Wake  to  a  new  and  fresher  birth 

The  tenderest  tribes  of  teeming  earth, 

And  scatter  with  light  and  dallying  play 

Their  earliest  flowers  on  the  Zephyr's  way. 

He  comes  from  the  mountain's  piny  steep, 
For  the  long  boughs  bend  with  a  silent  sweep. 
And  his  rapid  steps  have  hurried  o'er 
The  grassy  hills  to  the  pebbly  shore  ; 
And  now,  on  the  breast  of  the  lonely  lake, 


51 

The  waves  in  silvery  glances  break, 
Like  a  short  and  quickly  rolling  sea, 
When  the  gale  first  feels  its  liberty, 
And  the  flakes  of  foam,  like  coursers,  run, 
Rejoicing  beneath  the  vertical  sun. 

He  has  crossed  the  lake,  and  the  forest  heaves, 
To  the  sway  of  his  wings,  its  billowy  leaves, 
And  the  downy  tufts  of  the  meadow  fly 
In  snowy  clouds,  as  he  passes  by, 
And  softly  beneath  his  noiseless  tread 
The  odorous  spring-grass  bends  its  head ; 
And  now  he  reaches  the  woven  bower, 
Where  he  meets  his  own  beloved  flower, 
And  gladly  his  wearied  limbs  repose, 
In  the  shade  of  the  newly-opening  rose. 


SONNET. 

They  talk  of  short-lived  pleasure — be  it  so — 

Pain  dies  as  quickly :  stern  hard-featured  pain 
Expires,  and  lets  her  weary  prisoner  go. 

The  fiercest  agonies  have  shortest  reign  ; 

And,  after  dreams  of  horror,  comes  again 
The  welcome  morning  with  its  rays  of  peace. 

Oblivion,  softly  wiping  out  the  stain, 
Makes  the  strong  secret  pangs  of  shame  to  cease : 


52 

Remorse  is  virtue's  root ;  its  fair  increase 
Are  fruits  of  innocence  and  blessedness : 

Thus  joy,  o'erborne  and  bound,  doth  still  release, 
His  young  limbs  from  the  chains  that  round  him  press. 

Weep  not  that  the  world  changes — did  it  keep 

A  stable  changeless  state,  'twere  cause  indeed  to  weep. 


SONNET. 

Yet  one  smile  more,  departing  distant  sun  ! 

One  mellow  smile  through  the  soft  vapoury  air, 
Ere,  o'er  the  frozen  earth,  the  loud  winds  run, 

Or  snows  are  sifted  o'er  the  meadows  bare. 
One  smile  on  the  brown  hills  and  naked  trees, 

And  the  dark  rocks  whose  summer  wreaths  are  cast, 
And  the  blue  Gentian  flower,  that,  in  the  breeze, 

Nods  lonely,  of  her  beautious  race  the  last. 
Yet  a  few  sunny  days,  in  which  the  bee 

Shall  murmur  by  the  hedge  that  skirts  the  way, 
The  cricket  chirp  upon  the  russet  lea, 

And  man  delight  to  linger  in  thy  ray. 
Yet  one  rich  smile,  and  we  will  try  to  bear 
The  piercing  winter  frost,  and  winds,  and  darkened  air. 


53 


SUNRISfi  ON  THE  HILLS. 

I  stood  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven's  wide  arcli 
Was  glorious  with  the  sun's  returning  march, 

And  woods  were  brightened,  and  soft  gales 

Went  forth  to  kiss  the  sun-clad  vales. 
The  clouds  were  far  beneath  me  : — bathed  in  light 
They  gathered  mid-way  round  the  wooded  height, 

And  in  their  fading  glory  shone 

Like  hosts  in  battle  overthrown, 
As  many  a  pinnacle  with  shifting  glance, 
Through  the  gray  mist  thrust  up  its  shattered  lance, 

And  rocking  on  the  cliff  was  left 

The  dark  pine  blasted,  bare,  and  cleft. 
The  veil  of  cloud  was  lifted, — and  below 
Glowed  the  rich  valley,  and  the  river's  flow 

Was  darkened  by  the  forest's  shade, 

Or  glistened  in  the  white  cascade, 
Where  upward  in  the  mellow  blush  of  day 
The  noisy  bittern  wheeled  his  spiral  way. 

I  heard  the  distant  waters  dash — 

I  saw  the  current  whirl  and  flash — 
And  richly  by  the  blue  lake's  silver  beach 
The  woods  were  bending  with  a  silent  reach. 

Then  o'er  the  vale  with  gentle  swell 

The  music  of  the  village  bell 
Came  sweetly  to  the  echo-giving  hills, 

And  the  wild  horn,  whose  voice  the  woodland  fills, 
E2 


54 

Was  ringing  to  the  merry  shout 
That  faint  and  far  the  glen  sent  out, 
Where,  answering  to  the  sudden  shot,  thin  smoke 
Through  thick-leaved  branches  from  the  dingle  broke. 

If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 
With  sorrows  that  thou  wouldst  forget, — 
If  thou  wouldst  read  a  lesson  that  will  keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting  and  thy  soul  from  sleep, 
Go  to  the  woods  and  hills ! — no  tears 
Dim  the  sweet  look  that  nature  wears. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  BEAUTY. 

The  Spirit  of  Beauty  unfurls  her  light, 
And  wheels  her  course  in  a  joyous  flight : 
I  know  her  track  through  the  balmy  air, 
By  the  blossoms  that  cluster  and  whiten  there ; 
She  leaves  the  tops  of  the  mountains  green, 
And  gems  the  valley  with  crystal  sheen. 

At  morn,  I  know  where  she  rested  at  night, 
For  the  roses  are  gushing  with  dewy  delight ; 
Then  she  mounts  again,  and  around  her  flings 
A  shower  of  light  from  her  purple  wings, 
Till  the  spirit  is  drunk  with  the  music  on  high-, 
That  silently  fills  it  with  ecstacy ! 


At  noon,  she  hies  to  a  cool  retreat, 

Where  bowering  elms  over  waters  meet ; 

She  dimples  the  wave,  where  the  green  leaves  dip, 

That  smiles,  as  it  curls,  like  a  maiden's  lip, 

When  her  tremulous  bosom  would  hide,  in  vain, 

From  her  lover,  the  hope  that  she  loves  again. 

At  eve,  she  hangs  o'er  the  western  sky  - 
Dark  clouds  for  a  glorious  canopy  ; 
And  round  the  skirts  of  each  sweeping  fold, 
She  paints  a  border  of  crimson  and  gold, 
Where  the  lingering  sunbeams  love  to  stay, 
When  their  god  in  his  glory  has  passed  away. 

She  hovers  around  us  at  twilight  hour, 

When  her  presence  is  felt  with  the  deepest  power  ; 

She  mellows  the  landscape,  and  crowds  the  stream 

With  shadows  that  flit  like  a  fairy  dream : — 

Still  wheeling  her  flight  through  the  gladsome  air, 

The  Spirit  of  Beauty  is  every  where ! 


SONG. 

7Tis  the  season  of  tender  delight, — 
The  season  of  fresh-springing  flower* ; 

Young  Spring  in  the  joy  of  her  beauty  jg  bright. 
And  leads  on  the  rapturous  hours ; 


56 

Fair  nature  is  loud  in  her  transport  of  pleasure, 
The  woods  and  the  valleys  re-echo  herlay  ; 

The  robin  now  warbles  his  love-breathing  measure, 
And  scatters  the  blossoms  while  tilting  the  spray ; 

One  impulse  of  tenderness  thrills  through  the  groves, 

While  the  birds  carol  sweetly  their  innocent  loves. 

How  mild  is  the  Zephyr  that  blows ! 

What  fragrance  his  balmy  wings  bear — 
He  breaths  as  if  fearful  to  brush  from  the  rose 

The  dew-drops  so  tremulous  there  ! 
The  stream  flowing  gently  beside  the  green  cresses 

So  lightsomely  dashes  their  tendrils  away — 
It  seems  some  fond  mother,  who  while  she  caresses, 

Would  sportfully  chide  her  young  children  at  play. 
Hear  the  minstrel-bee  lulling  the  blossoms  to  rest, 
For  the  nectar  he  sips  as  the  wild-flowers'  guest ! 

Look  out  then  on  Nature  awhile, 

Observe  her  inviting  thee  now, — 
Benevolence  beams  in  her  sunshiny  smile, 

And  blandishment  sits  on  her  brow  : 
Come  stray  with  me,  love,  where  the  fountains  are 
flowing, 

And  wild-flowers  clustre  to  drink  of  the  stream ; 
While  watching  the  lily  and  daffodil  blowing, 

No  moment  of  bliss  shall  so  exquisite  seem ; 
When  nature  invites  thee,  oh !  why  then  delay ; 
While  Joy  is  still  waking,  away !  love,  away ! 


57 


SONG  OF  THE  GRECIAN  AMAZON. 

I  buckle  to  my  slender  side 

The  pistol  and  the  scimetar, 
And  in  my  maiden  flower  and  pride 

Am  come  to  share  the  tasks  of  war. 
And  yonder  stands  my  fiery  steed, 

That  paws  the  ground  and  neighs  to  go,. 
My  charger  of  the  Arab  breed, — 

I  took  him  from  the  routed  foe. 

My  mirror  is  the  mountain  spring, 

At  which  I  dress  my  ruffled  hair  ; 
My  dimmed  and  dusty  arms  I  bring, 

And  wash  away  the  blood-stain  there. 
Why  should  I  guard,  from  wind  and  sun, 

This  cheek,  whose  virgin  rose  is  fled, 
It  was  for  one — oh,  only  one — 

I  kept  its  bloom,  and  he  is  dead. 

But  they  who  slew  him — unaware 

Of  coward  murderers  lurking  nigh — 
And  left  him  to  the  fowls  of  air, 

Are  yet  alive — and  they  must  die. 
They  slew  him — and  my  virgin  years 

Are  vowed  to  Greece  and  vengeance  now  ; 
And  many  an  Othman  dame,  in  tears, 

Shall  rue  the  Grecian  maiden's  vow. 


58 

I  touched  the  lute  in  better  days, 

I  led  in  dance  the  joyous  band ; — 
Ah !  they  may  move  to  mirthful  lays 

Whose  hands  can  touch  a  lover's  hand. 
The  march  of  hosts  that  haste  to  meet 

Seems  gayer  than  the  dance  to  me  ; 
The  lute's  sweet  tones  are  not  so  sweet 

As  the  fierce  shout  of  victory. 


fcYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN   NUNS 
AT    THE    CONSECRATION    OF    PULASKl's    BANNER. 

The  standard  of  Count  Pulaski,  the  noble  Pole  who  fell  in  the  attack 
upon  Savannah,  during  the  American  Revolution,  was  of  crimson  silk- 
embroidered  by  the  Moravian  Nuns  of  Bethlehem  in  Pennsylvania. 

When  the  dying  flame  of  day 

Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 

Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 

Faint  light  on  the  cowled  head, 

And  the  censer  burning  swung, 

Where  before  the  altar  hung 

That  proud  banner,  which  with  prayer 

Had  been  consecrated  there. 
And  the  nuns'  sweet  hymn  was  heard  the  while, 
Sung  low  in  the  dim  mysterious  aisle. 


59 

Take  thy  banner ! — may  it  wave 
Proudly  o'er  the  good  and  brave, 
When  the  battle's  distant  wail 
Breaks  the  sabbath  of  our  vale, — 
When  the  clarion's  music  thrills 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills, — 
When  the  spear  in  conflict  shakes, 
And  the  strong  lance  shivering  breaks. 

Take  thy  banner ! — and  beneath 
The  war-cloud's  encircling  wreath, 
Guard  it — till  our  homes  are  free — 
Guard  it — God  will  prosper  thee  I 
In  the  dark  and  trying  hour, 
In  the  breaking  forth  of  power, 
In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men, 
His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 

Take  thy  banner!     But  when  night 

Closes  round  the  ghastly  fight, 

If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 

Spare  him  ! — by  our  holy  vow, 

By  our  prayers  and  many  tears, 

By  the  mercy  that  endears, 

Spare  him — he  our  love  hath  shared — 

Spare  him — as  thou  wouldst  be  spared  f 

Take  thy  banner ! — and  if  e'er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier's  bier. 
And  the  muffled  drum  should  beat 


60 

To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet, 
Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  be 
Martial  cloak  and  shroud  for  thee  ! 

And  the  warrior  took  that  banner  proud, 
And  it  was  his  martial  cloak  and  shroud. 


LOVE  ASLEEP. 

Wake  him  not,  he  dreams  of  bliss ; 
His  little  lips  put  forth  a  kiss  ; 
His  arms,  entwined  in  virgin  grace, 
Seem  linked  in  beautiful  embrace. 

He  smiles, — and  on  his  opening  lip 
Might  saints  refresh  and  angels  sip  ; 
He  blushes, — 'tis  the  rosy  light 
That  morning  wears  on  leaving  night 

He  sighs, — 'tis  not  the  sigh  of  wo ; 
He  only  sighs  that  he  may  know 
If  kindred  sighs  another  move  ; 
For  mutual  sighs  are  signs  of  love. 

He  speaks, — it  is  his  dear  one's  name  ; 
He  whispers, —  still  it  is  the  same  ; 
The  imprisoned  accents  strive  in  vain, 
They  murmer  through  his  lips  again. 


61 

He  wakes !  the  silly  little  boy, 
To  break  the  mirror  thus  of  joy ; 
He  wakes  to  sorrow,  and  in  pain ; 
Oh !  Love,  renew  thy  dreams  again. 


SONG. 

Dost  thou  idly  ask  to  hear 

At  what  gentle  seasons 
Nymphs  relent,  when  lovers  near 

Press  the  tenderest  reasons  ? 
Ah,  they  give  their  faith  too  oft 

To  the  careless  wooer  ; 
Maidens'  hearts  are  always  soft, 

Would  that  men's  were  truer  ! 

Woo  the  fair  one,  when  around 

Early  birds  are  singing  ; 
When,  o'er  all  the  fragrant  ground, 

Early  herbs  are  springing : 
When  the  brookside,  bank  and  grove, 

All  with  blossoms  laden, 
Shine  with  beauty,  breathe  of  love, — 

Woo  the  timid  maiden. 

Woo  her,  when,  with  rosy  blush, 

Summer  eve  is  sinking  ; 
When,  on  rills  that  softly  gushr 


62 

Stars  are  softly  winking  ; 
When,  through  boughs  that  knit  the  bower, 

Moonlight  gleams  are  stealing  ; 
Woo  her,  till  the  gentle  hour 

Wakes  a  gentler  feeling. 

Woo  her,  when  autumnal  dyes 

Tinge  the  woody  mountain  ; 
When  the  dropping  foliage  lies, 

In  the  half-choked  fountain  ; 
Let  the  scene,  that  tells  how  fast 

Youth  is  passing  over, 
Warn  her,  ere  her  bloom  is  past, 

To  secure  her  lover. 

Woo  her,  when  the  northwinds  call 

At  the  lattice  nightly  ; 
When,  within  the  cheerful  hall, 

Blaze  the  faggots  brightly  ; 
While  the  wintry  tempest  round 

Sweeps  the  landscape  hoary, 
Sweeter  in  her  ear  shall  sound 

Love's  delightful  story. 


THE  GRECIAN  PARTIZAN. 

Our  free  flag  is  dancing, 

In  the  free  mountain  air, 
And  burnished  arms  are  glancing, 


63 

And  warriors  mustering  there ; 
And  true  and  brave,  though  passing  few, 

Are  they  whose  bosoms  shield  it ; — 
Their  life-blood  shall  its  folds  bedew 

Ere  to  the  foe  they  yield  it. 
Each  dark  eye  is  fixed  on  earth, 

And  brief  each  solemn  greeting  ; — 
There  is  no  look  or  sound  of  mirth 

Where  those  stern  men  are  meeting. 

They  go  to  the  slaughter, 

To  strike  the  sudden  blow, 
And  pour  on  earth,  like  water, 

The  best  blood  of  the  foe  ; 
To  rush  on  them  from  rock  and  height, 

And  clear  the  narrow  valley, 
Or  fire  their  camp,  at  dead  of  night, 

And  fly  before  they  rally. 
Chains  are  round  our  country  prest, 

And  cowards  have  betrayed  her, 
And  we  must  make  her  bleeding  breast 

The  grave  of  the  invader. 

Not  till  from  her  fetters 

We  raise  up  Greece  again, 
And  write,  in  bloody  letters, 

That  tyranny  is  slain, — 
Oh,  not  till  then  the  smile  shall  steal 

Across  those  darkened  faces, 
Nor  one  of  all  those  warriors  feel 


64 

His  children's  dear  embraces. 
Leave  unreaped  the  ripened  wheat, 

Till  yonder  hosts  are  flying, 
And  all  their  bravest,  at  our  feet, 

Like  autumn  sheaves  are  lying. 


THE  INDIAN  HUNTER. 

When  the  summer  harvest  was  gathered  in, 

And  the  sheaf  of  the  gleaner  grew  white  and  thin, 

And  the  ploughshare  was  in  its  furrow  left, 

Where  the  stubble  land  had  been  lately  cleft, 

An  Indian  hunter,  with  unstrung  bow, 

Looked  down  where  the  valley  lay  stretched  below, 

He  was  a  stranger  there,  and  all  that  day 
Had  been  out  on  the  hills,  a  perilous  way, 
But  the  foot  of  the  deer  was  far  and  fleet, 
And  the  wolf  kept  aloof  from  the  hunter's  feet, 
And  bitter  feelings  passed  o'er  him  then, 
As  he  stood  by  the  populous  haunts  of  men. 

The  winds  of  autumn  came  over  the  woods 
As  the  sun  stole  out  from  their  solitudes, 
The  moss  was  white  on  the  maple's  trunk, 
And  dead  from  its  arms  the  pale  vine  shrunk, 
And  ripened  the  mellow  fruit  hung,  and  red 
Were  the  tree's  withered  leaves  round  it  shed. 


65 

The  foot  of  the  reaper  moved  slow  on  the  lawn, 
And  the  sickle  cut  down  the  yellow  corn, — 
The  mower  sung  loud  by  the  meadow  side, 
Where  the  mists  of  evening  were  spreading  wide1, 
And  the  voice  of  the  herdsman  came  up  the  lea, 
And  the  dance  went  round  by  the  greenwood  tree* 

Then  the  hunter  turned  away  from  that  scene, 
Where  the  home  of  his  fathers  once  had  been, 
And  heard  by  the  distant  and  measured  stroke, 
That  the  woodman  hewed  down  the  giant  oak, 
And  burning  thoughts  flashed  over  his  mind 
Of  the  white  man's  faith,  and  love  unkind. 

The  moon  of  the  harvest  grew  high  and  bright, 
As  her  golden  horn  pierced  the  cloud  of  white, — 
A  footstep  was  heard  in  the  rustling  brake, 
Where  the  beech  overshadowed  the  misty  lake, 
And  a  mourning  voice  and  a  plunge  from  shore ; — 
And  the  hunter  was  seen  on  the  hills  no  more. 

When  years  had  passed  on,  by  that  still  lake-side 
The  fisher  looked  down  through  the  silver  tide, 
And  there,  on  tne  smooth  yellow  sand  displayed, 
A  skeleton  wasted  and  white  was  laid, 
And  'twas  seen,  as  the  waters  moved  deep  and  slow 
That  the  hand  was  still  grasping  a  hunter's  bow. 


66 


AN  INDIAN  STORY. 

"  I  know  where  the  timid  fawn  abides 

In  the  depths  of  the  shaded  dell, 
Where  the  leaves  are  broad  and  the  thicket  hides, 
With  its  many  stems  and  its  tangled  sides, 

From  the  eye  of  the  hunter  well. 

"  I  know  where  the  young  May  violet  grows, 

In  its  lone  and  lowly  nook, 
On  the  mossy  bank,  where  the  larch  tree  throws 
Its  broad  dark  boughs,  in  solemn  repose, 

Far  over  the  silent  brook. 

"  And  that  timid  fawn  starts  not  with  fear 
When  I  steal  to  her  secret  bower, 

And  that  young  May  violet  to  me  is  dear, 

And  I  visit  the  silent  streamlet  near, 
To  look  on  the  lovely  flower." 

Thus  Maquon  sings  as  he  lightly  walks 

To  the  hunting  ground  on  the  hills  ; 
'Tis  a  song  of  his  maid  of  the  woods  and  rocks, 
With  her  bright  black  eyes  and  long  black  locks, 
And  voice  like  the  music  of  rills. 

He  goes  to  the  chase — but  evil  eyes 

Are  at  watch  in  the  thicker  shades ; 
For  she  was  lovely  that  smiled  on  his  sighs, 


G7 

And  he  bore,  from  a  hundred  lovers,  his  prize, 
The  flower  of  the  forest  maids. 

The  boughs  in  the  morning  wind  are  stirred, 

And  the  woods  their  song  renew, 
With  the  early  carol  of  many  a  bird, 
And  the  quickened  tune  of  the  streamlet  heard 

Where  the  hazels  trickle  with  dew. 

And  Maquon  has  promised  his  dark-haired  maid, 

Ere  eve  shall  redden  the  sky, 
A  good  red  deer  from  the  forest  shade, 
That  bounds  with  the  herd  through  grove  and  glade, 

At  her  cabin  door  shall  lie. 

The  hollow  woods,  in  the  setting  sun, 

Ring  shrill  with  the  fire-bird's  lay ; 
And  Maquon's  sylvan  labours  are  done, 
And  his  shafts  are  spent,  but  the  spoil  they  won 

He  bears  on  his  homeward  way. 

He  stops  near  his  bower — his  eye  perceives 

Strange  traces  along  the  ground — 
At  once,  to  the  earth  his  burden  he  heaves, 
He  breaks  through  the  veil  of  boughs  and  leaves, 

And  gains  its  door  with  a  bound. 

But  the  vines  are  torn  on  its  walls  that  leant, 

And  all  from  the  young  shrubs  there 
By  struggling  hands  have  the  leaves  been  rent, 


68 

And  there  hangs,  on  the  sassafras  broken  and  bent, 
One  tress  of  the  well  known  hair, 

But  where  is  she  who  at  this  calm  hour, 

Ever  watched  his  coming  to  see, 
She  is  not  at  the  door,  nor  yet  in  the  bower, 
He  calls — but  he  only  hears  on  the  flower 

The  hum  of  the  laden  bee. 

It  is  not  a  time  for  idle  grief, 

Nor  a  time  for  tears  to  flow, 
The  horror  that  freezes  his  limbs  is  brief — 
He  grasps  his  war  axe  and  bow,  and  a  sheaf 

Of  darts  made  sharp  for  the  foe. 

And  he  looks  for  the  print  of  the  ruffian's  feet, 

Where  he  bore  the  maiden  away  ; 
And  he  darts  on  the  fatal  path  more  fleet 
Than  the  blast  that  hurries  the  vapour  and  sleet 
O'er  the  wild  November  day. 

'T  was  early  Summer  when  Maquon's  bride 

Was  stolen  away  from  his  door ; 
But  at  length  the  maples  in  crimson  are  dyed, 
And  the  grape  is  black  on  the  cabin  side, — 

And  she  smiles  at  his  hearth  once  more. 

But  far  in  a  pine  grove,  dark  and  cold, 

Where  the  yellow  leaf  falls  not, 
Nor  the  Autumn  shines  in  scarlet  and  gold. 


69 

There  lies  a  hillock  of  fresh  dark  mould, 
In  the  deepest  gloom  of  the  spot. 

And  the  Indian  girls,  that  pass  that  way, 

Point  out  the  ravisher's  grave  ; 
"  And  how  soon  to  the  bower  she  loved,"  they  say, 
"  Returned  the  maid  that  was  borne  away 

From  Maquon  the  fond  and  the  brave." 


THE  SOUL  OF  SONG. 

Where  lives  the  Soul  of  song  ? 

Dwells  it  amid  the  city's  festive  halls  ? 

Where  crowd  the  eager  throng, 

Or  where  the  wanderer's  silent  footstep  falls  ? 

Loves  it  the  gay  saloon, 

Where  wine  and  dances  steal  away  the  night, 

And  bright  as  summer  noon 

Burns  round  the  pictured  walls  a  blaze  of  light  ? 

Seeks  it  the  public  square, 

When  victory  hails  the  people's  chosen  son, 

And  loud  applauses  there 

From  lip  to  lip  in  emulous  greetings  run  ? 

Dwells  it  amid  the  host, 

Who  bear  their  crimson  banners  waving  high ; 


70 

Whose  first  and  only  boast 

Draws  tears  of  anguish  from  the  patriot's  eye  ? 

Follows  it  on  the  path, 

Where  the  proud  conqueror  marches  to  his  home, 

And  wearied  of  his  wrath 

Smiles  as  he  steps  beneath  the  imperial  dome  ? 

No — not  in  festive  halls, 

In  crowded  marts,  nor  in  the  gay  saloon ; 

Not  in  the  forum  falls, 

Nor  on  the  conquering  host,  the  gracious  boon ; 

But  where  blue  mountains  rise 

Silent  and  calm  amid  the  upper  air, 

And  pure  and  cloudless  skies 

Bend  o'er  a  world,  that  lies  below  as  fair ; 

But  where  uncultured  plains 

Spread  far  and  wide  their  beds  of  grass  and  flowersy 

And  heaven's  bright  pencil  stains 

Clear  gems  that  roll  away  in  silent  showers; 

But  in  the  depth  of  woods, 

Where  the  slant  sunbeam  gilds  the  hoary  trees, 

And  the  soft  voice  of  floods 

Glides  on  the  pinions  of  the  evening  breeze  ; 

But  in  the  broken  dell, 

Where  the  cripsed  ivy  curls  its  tangled  vines. 


71 

And  the  wild  blossom's  bell 

Drops  with  the  dew,  that  in  its  hollow  shines ; 

But  in  the  gulfy  cave, 

Where  pours  the  cascade  from  the  glacier's  height, 

And  all  its  waters  wave, 

Like  rainbows,  in  their  luxury  of  light ; 

There  dwells  the  Soul  of  song, — 

It  flies  not  to  the  city's  festive  halls, 

But  loves  to  steal  along, 

Where  the  lone  wanderer's  silent  footstep  falls, 


THE  DESOLATE  CITY, 

I  had  a  vision. — 
A  city  lay  before  me,  desolate, 
And  yet  not  all  decayed.     A  summer  sun 
Shone  on  it  from  a  most  etherial  sky, 
And  the  soft  winds  threw  o'er  it  such  a  balm, 
One  would  have  thought  it  was  a  sepulchre, 
And  this  the  incense  offered  to  the  manes 
Of  the  departed. 

In  the  light  it  lay 

Peacefully,  as  if  all  its  thousands  took 
Their  afternoon's  repose,  and  soon  would  wake 
To  the  loud  joy  of  evening.    There  it  lay, 


72 

A  city  of  magnificent  palaces, 

And  churches,  towering  more  like  things  of  Heaven, 

The  glorious  fabrics,  fancy  builds  in  clouds, 

And  shapes  on  loftiest  mountains — bright  their  domes 

Threw  back  the  living  ray,  and  proudly  stood 

Many  a  statue,  looking  like  the  forms 

Of  spirits  hovering  in  mid  air.     Tall  trees, 

Cypress  and  plane,  waved  over  many  a  hill 

Cumbered  with  ancient  ruins — broken  arches, 

And  tottering  columns — vaults,  where  never  came 

The  blessed  beam  of  day,  but  only  lamps 

Shedding  a  funeral  light,  were  kindled  there, 

And  gave  to  the  bright  frescoes  on  the  walls. 

And  the  pale  statues  in  their  far  recesses, 

A  dim  religious  awe.    Rudely  they  lay, 

Scarce  marking  out  to  the  inquisitive  eye 

Their  earliest  outline.    But  as  desolate 

Slumbered  the  newer  city,  though  its  walls 

Were  yet  unbroken,  and  its  towering  domes 

Had  never  stooped  to  ruin.     All  was  still  ; 

Hardly  the  faintest  sound  of  living  thing 

Moved  through  the  mighty  solitude — and  yet 

All  wore  the  face  of  beauty.    Not  a  cloud 

Hung  in  the  lofty  sky,  that  seemed  to  rise 

In  twofold  majesty,  so  bright  and  pure, 

It  seemed  indeed  a  crystalline  sphere — and  there 

The  sun  rode  onward  in  his  conquering  march 

Serenely  glorious.    From  the  mountain  heights 

Tinged  with  the  blue  of  heaven,  to  the  wide  sea 

Glassed  with  as  pure  a  blue,  one  desolate  plain 


73 

Spread  out,  and  over  it  the  fairest  sky 

Bent  round  and  blessed  it.     Life  was  teeming  there 

In  all  its  lower  forms,  a  wilderness 

Of  rank  luxuriance  ;  flowers,  and  purpling  vines 

Matted  with  deepest  foliage,  hid  the  ruins, 

And  gave  the  semblance  of  a  tangled  wood 

To  piles,  that  once  were  loudly  eloquent 

With  the  glad  cry  of  thousands.  There  were  gardens 

Round- stateliest  villas,  full  of  graceful  statues, 

And  temples  reared  to  woodland  deities  ; 

And  they  were  overcrowded  with  the  excess 

Of  beauty.     All  that  most  is  coveted 

Beneath  a  colder  sky,  grew  wantonly 

And  richly  there.     Myrtles  and  citrons  filled 

The  air  with  fragrance.     From  the  tufted  elm, 

Bent  with  its  own  too  massy  foliage,  hung 

Clusters  of  sunny  grapes  in  frosted  purple, 

Drinking  in  spirit  from  the  glowing  air, 

And  dropping  generous  dews.     The  very  wind 

Seemed  there  a  lover,  and  his  easy  wings 

Fanned  the  gay  bowers,  as  if  in  fond  delay 

He  bent  o'er  loveliest  things,  too  beautiful 

Ever  to  know  decay.     The  silent  air 

Floating  as  softly  as  a  cloud  of  roses, 

Dropped  from  Idalia  in  a  dewy  shower, — 

The  air  itself  seemed  like  the  breath  of  Heaven 

Filling  the  groves  of  Eden.     Yet  these  walls 

Are  desolate — not  a  trace  of  living  man 

Is  found  amid  these  glorious  works  of  man, 

And  nature's  fairer  glories.    Why  should  he 
G 


74 

Be  absent  from  the  festival  of  life, 

The  holiday  of  nature  ?    Why  not  come 

To  add  to  the  sweet  sounds  of  winds  and  waters — 

Of  winds  uttering  ^Eolian  melodies 

To  the  bright,  listening  flowers,  and  waters  falling 

Most  musical  from  marble  fountains  wreathed 

With  clustering  ivy,  like  a  poet's  brow — 

Why  comes  he  not  to  add  his  higher  strains, 

And  be  the  interpreter  of  lower  things, 

In  intellectual  worship,  at  the  throne 

Of  the  Beneficent  Power,  that  gave  to  them 

Their  pride  and  beauty  ? — "  In  these  palaces, 

These  awful  temples,  these  religious  caves, 

These  hoary  ruins,  and  these  twilight  groves 

Teeming  with  life  and  love, — a  secret  plague 

Dwells,  and  the  unwary  foot,  that  ventures  here, 

Returns  not. Fly !  To  linger  here  is  death." 


TO  GENEVIEVE. 

I'll  rob  the  hyacinth  and  rose, 
I'll  search  the  cowslip's  fragrant  cell, 
Nor  spare  the  breath  that  daily  blows 
Her  incense  from  the  asphodel. 

And  these  shall  breathe  thy  gentle  name, 
Sweet  Naiad  of  the  sacred  stream, 


75 

Where,  musing,  first  I  caught  the  flame, 
That  Passion  kindles  in  his  dream. 

Thy  soul  of  Music  broke  the  spell, 
That  bound  my  lyre's  neglected  strings ; 
Attuned  its  silent  echo's  shell, 
And  loosed  again  his  airy  wings. 

Ah  !  long  had  beauty's  eyes  in  vain 
Diffused  their  radiant  light  divine  ; 
Alas,  it  never  woke  a  strain, 
Till  inspiration  beamed  from  thine. 

Thus  vainly  did  the  stars  at  night 
O'er  Memnon's  lyre  their  watch  prolong, 
When  nought  but  bright  Aurora's  light 
Could  wake  its  silence  into  song ! 


THE  ANGLER'S  SONG. 

From  the  river's  plashy  bank, 

Where  the  sedge  grows  green  and  rank, 

And  the  twisted  woodbine  springs, 
Upward  speeds  the  morning  lark 
To  its  silver  cloud — and  hark  ! 

On  his  way  the  woodman  sings. 


76 

On  the  dim  and  misty  lakes 
Gloriously  the  morning  breaks, 

And  the  eagle  's  on  his  cloud  : — 
Whilst  the  wind,  with  sighing,  woos 
To  its  arms  the  chaste  cold  ooze, 

And  the  rustling  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Where  the  embracing  ivy  holds 
Close  the  hoar  elm  in  its  folds, 

In  the  meadow's  fenny  land, 
And  the  winding  river  sweeps 
Through  its  shallows  and  still  deeps, — 

Silent  with  my  rod  I  stand. 

But  when  sultry  suns  are  high 
Underneath  the  oak  I  lie, 

As  it  shades  the  water's  edge, 
And  I  mark  my  line,  away 
In  the  wheeling  eddy,  play, 

Tangling  with  the  river  sedge. 

When  the  eye  of  evening  looks 

On  green  woods  and  winding  brooks, 

And  the  wind  sighs  o'er  the  lea, — 
Woods  and  streams, — I  leave  you  then, 
While  the  shadow  in  the  glen 

Lengthens  by  the  greenwood  tree. 


77 


HYMN  TO  THE  NORTH  STAR. 

The  sad  and  solemn  night 
Has  yet  her  multitude  of  cheerful  fires  ; 

The  glorious  host  of  light 
Walk  the  dark  hemisphere  till  she  retires : 
All  through  her  silent  watches,  gliding  slow, 
Her  constellations  come,  and  round  the  heavens,  and  go. 

Day,  too,  hath  many  a  star 
To  grace  his  gorgeous  reign,  as  bright  as  they : 

Through  the  blue  fields  afar, 
Unseen,  they  follow  in  his  flaming  way. 
Many  a  bright  lingerer,  as  the  eve  grows  dim, 
Tells  what  a  radiant  troop  arose  and  set  with  him.  „ 

And  thou  dost  see  them  rise, 
Star  of  the  Pole  !  and  thou  dost  see  them  set. 

Alone,  in  thy  cold  skies, 
Thou  keep'st  thy  old  unmoving  station  yet, 
Nor  join'st  the  dances  of  that  glittering  train, 
Nor  dip'st  thy  virgin  orb  in  the  blue  western  main. 

There,  at  morn's  rosy  birth, 
Thou  lookest  meekly  through  the  kindling  air, 

And  eve,  that  round  the  earth 
Chases  the  day,  beholds  thee  watching  there  ; 
There  noontide  finds  thee,  and  the  hour  that  calls 
The  shapes  of  polar  flame  to  scale  heaven's  azure  walls. 
G2 


76 

Alike,  beneath  thine  eye, 
The  deeds  of  darkness  and  of  light  are  done  ; 

High  towards  the  star-lit  sky 
Towns  blaze — the  smoke  of  battle  blots  the  sun — 
The  night-storm  on  a  thousand  hills  is  loud — 
And  the  strong  wind  of  day  doth  mingle  sea  and  cloud. 

On  thy  unaltering  blaze 
The  half-wrecked  mariner,  his  compass  lost, 

Fixes  his  steady  gaze, 

And  steers,  undoubting,  to  the  friendly  coast ; 
And  they  who  stray  in  perilous  wastes,  by  night, 
Are  glad  when  thou  dost  shine  to  guide  their  footsteps 
right. 

And,  therefore,  bards  of  old, 
Sages,  and  hermits  of  the  solemn  wood 

Did  in  thy  beams  behold 
A  beauteous  type  of  that  unchanging  good, 
That  bright  eternal  beacon,  by  whose  ray 
The  voyager  of  time  should  shape  his  heedful  way* 


SONG  OF  THE  STARS. 

When  the  radiant  morn  of  creation  broke, 

And  the  world  in  the  smile  of  God  awoke, 

And  the  empty  realms  of  darkness  and  death 

Were  moved  through  their  depths  by  his  mighty  breath. 


79 

And  orbs  of  beauty,  and  spheres  of  flame, 

From  the  void  abyss,  by  myriads  came, 

In  the  joy  of  youth,  as  they  darted  away, 

Through  the  widening  wastes  of  space  to  play. 

Their  silver  voices  in  chorus  rung, 

And  this  was  the  song  the  bright  ones  sung. 

Away,  away,  through  the  wide,  wide  sky, 

The  fair  blue  fields  that  before  us  lie  : 

Each  sun  with  the  worlds  that  round  us  roll, 

Each  planet  poised  on  her  turning  pole, 

With  her  isles  of  green,  and  her  clouds  of  white, 

And  her  waters  that  lie  like  fluid  light. 

For  the  source  of  glory  uncovers  his  face, 
And  the  brightness  overflows  unbounded  space  ; 
And  we  drink,  as  we  go,  the  luminous  tides 
In  our  ruddy  air  and  our  blooming  sides  ; 
Lo,  yonder  the  living  splendors  play  ! 
Away,  on  our  joyous  path  away  ! 

Look,  look,  through  our  glittering  ranks  afar, 
In  the  infinite  azure,  star  after  star, 
How  they  brighten  and  bloom  as  they  swiftly  pass  I 
How  the  verdure  runs  o'er  each  rolling  mass ! 
And  the  path  of  the  gentle  winds  is  seen, 
Where  the  small  waves  dance,  and  the  young  woods 
lean. 


80 

And  see,  where  the  brighter  day-beams  pour, 
How  the  rainbows  hang  in  the  sunny  shower  ; 
And  the  morn  and  the  eve,  with  their  pomp  of  hues, 
Shift  o'er  the  bright  planets  and  shed  their  dews  ; 
And  'twixt  them  both,  o'er  the  teeming  ground, 
With  her  shadowy  cone,  the  night  goes  round. 

Away,  away  ! — in  our  blossoming  bowers, 

In  the  soft  air  wrapping  these  spheres  of  ours, 

In  the  seas  and  fountains  that  shine  with  morn, 

See,  love  is  brooding,  and  life  is  born, 

And  breathing  myriads  are  breaking  from  night, 

To  rejoice,  like  us,  in  motion  and  light. 

Glide  on  in  your  beauty,  ye  youthful  spheres ! 
To  weave  the  dance  that  measures  the  years. 
Glide  on  in  the  glory  and  gladness  sent 
To  the  farthest  wall  of  the  firmament, 
The  boundless  visible  smile  of  him 
To  the  veil  of  whose  brow  our  lamps  are  dim. 


11  The  memory  of  joys  that  are  past." 

Ossian. 


Where  are  now  the  flowers  that  once  detained  me 
Like  a  loiterer  on  my  early  way  ? 
Where  the  fragrant  wreaths  that  softly  chained  me, 
When  young  life  was  like  an  infant's  play  ? 


81 

Were  they  but  the  fancied  dreams,  that  hover 
Round  the  couch  where  tender  hearts  repose  ? 
Only  pictured  veils  that  brightly  cover 
With  their  skyey  tints  a  world  of  woes  ? 

They  are  gone — but  Memory  loves  to  cherish 
All  their  sweetness  in  her  deepest  core. 
Ah !  the  recollection  cannot  perish, 
Though  the  eye  may  never  meet  them  more. 

There  are  hopes,  that  like  enchantment  brighten 
Gaily  in  the  van  of  coming  years  ; 
They  are  never  met — and  yet  they  lighten, 
When  we  walk  in  sorrow  and  in  tears. 

When  the  present  only  tells  of  anguish, 
Then  we  know  their  worth,  and  only  then : 
O  !  the  wasted  heart  will  cease  to  languish, 
When  it  thinks  of  joys  that  might  have  been. 

Age,  and  suffering,  and  want,  may  sever 
Every  link,  that  bound  to  life,  in  twain  : 
Hope — even  Hope  may  vanish,  but  forever 
Memory  with  her  visions  will  remain. 


THE  LAPSE  OF  TIME. 

Lament  who  will,  in  fruitless  tears, 

The  speed  with  which  our  moments  fly : 

I  sigh  not  over  vanished  years, 

But  watch  the  years  that  hasten  by. 

See  how  they  come,  a  mingled  crowd 
Of  bright  and  dark,  but  rapid  days ; — 

Beneath  them,  like  a  summer  cloud, 
The  wide  world  changes  as  I  gaze. 

What !  grieve  that  time  has  brought  so  soon 

The  sober  age  of  manhood  on ! 
As  idly  should  I  weep  at  noon, 

To  see  the  blush  of  morning  gone. 

Could  I  forego  the  hopes  that  glow 

In  prospect,  like  Elysian  isles  ? 
And  let  the  charming  future  go, 

With  all  her  promises  and  smiles  ? 

The  future  ! — cruel  were  the  power 

Whose  doom  would  tear  thee  from  my  heart. 

Thou  sweetener  of  the  present  hour  ! 
We  cannot — no — we  will  not  part. 

Oh,  leave  me,  still,  the  rapid  flight 
That  makes  the  changing  seasons  gay, 


83 

The  grateful  speed  that  brings  the  night, 
The  swift  and  glad  return  of  day  ; 

The  months  that  touch  with  lovelier  grace 

This  little  prattler  at  my  knee, 
In  whose  arch  eye  and  speaking  face 

New  meaning  every  hour  I  see ; 

The  years  that  o'er  each  sister  land 
Shall  lift  the  country  of  my  birth, 

And  nurse  her  strength,  till  she  shall  stand 
The  pride  and  pattern  of  the  earth ; 

Till  younger  commonwealths,  for  aid, 
Shall  cling  about  her  ample  robe, 

Arid,  from  her  frown,  shall  shrink,  afraid, 
The  crowned  oppressors  of  the  globe. 

True — time  will  seam  and  blanch  my  brow- 
Well — I  shall  sit  with  aged  men, 

And  my  good  glass  will  tell  me  how 
A  grisly  beard  becomes  me  then. 

And  should  no  foul  dishonour  lie 
Upon  my  head,  when  I  am  gray, 

Love  yet  may  search  my  fading  eye, 
And  smooth  the  path  of  my  decay. 

Then  haste  thee,  time, — 'tis  kindness  all 
That  speeds  thy  winged  feet  so  fast ; 


84 

Thy  pleasures  stay  not  till  they  pall, 
And  all  thy  pains  are  quickly  past. 

Thou  fliest,  and  bear'st  away  our  woes  ; 

And,  as  thy  shadowy  train  depart, 
The  memory  of  sorrow  grows 

A  lighter  burden  on  the  heart. 


INSCRIPTION. 

Stranger,  if  thou  hast  ever  blest  the  shade, 

That  lent  thee  shelter  from  the  sun  or  rain, 

Thou  wilt  not  rest  thee  underneath  this  elm 

Without  a  sense   of  gratitude.     The  boughs, 

That  overshadow  thee,  have  borne  the  brunt 

Of  centuries,  and  have  records  of  the  past 

In  all  their  whispering  leaves.    We  cannot  hear  them 

Telling  their  tales,  through  the  long  summer  day, 

To  the  cool  west-wind,  and  have  other  thoughts, 

Than  of  the  generations,  who  have  sat, 

In  long  succession,  on  the  mossy  turf 

That  beds  these  twisted  roots.     Sunshine  and  calm, 

Darkness  and  storm,  have  been  around  these  boughs. 

And  they  have  smiled  to  the  unclouded  sky, 

And  rocked  in  the  rude  tempest,  but  have  stood 

Unbroken,  while  the  stream  of  human  life 

Has  ebbed  and  flowed,  like  the  perpetual  tide, 


85 

And  hardly  left  a  trace  upon  its  shores, 

To  tell  us  where  it  came.     Then  rest  thee,  stranger, 

And  think  thou  hearest  in  the  ancient  wood 

A  monitor,  that  warns  thee  of  thy  end 

With  a  low  earnest  voice,  a  voice  of  kindness, 

That,  like  a  silent  fountain  running  over, 

Refreshes  where  it  flows,  and,  like  its  waters, 

Gives  life  to  the  sere  heart  it  passes  by. 


SONNET. 
TO 

Aye,  thou  art  for  the  grave  ;  thy  glances  shine 

Too  brightly  to  shine  long  ;  another  Spring 
Shall  deck  her  for  men's  eyes, — but  not  for  thine, 

Sealed  in  a  sleep  which  knows  no  wakening. 
The  fields  for  thee  have  no  medicinal  leaf, 

Nor  the  vexed  ore  a  mineral  of  power, 
And  they  who  love  thee,  wait  in  anxious  grief 

Till  the  slow  plague  shall  bring  the  fatal  hour. 
Glide  softly  to  thy  rest  then  ;  Death  should  come 

Gently  to  one  of  gentle  mould  like  thee, 
As  light  winds  wandering  through  groves  of  bloom 

Detach  the  delicate  blossom  from  the  tree. 
Close  thy  sweet  eyes  calmly,  and  without  pain  ; 

And  we  will  trust  in  God,  to  see  thee,  yet  again. 
H 


86 


SONNET. 

Earth  holds  no  fairer,  lovelier  one  than  thou. 
Maid  of  the  laughing  lip,  and  frolic  eye. 
Innocence  sits  upon  thy  open  brow, 
Like  a  pure  spirit  in  its  native  sky. 
If  ever  beauty  stole  the  heart  away, 
Enchantress,  it  would  fly  to  meet  thy  smile  ; 
Moments  would  seem  by  thee  a  summer  day. 
And  all  around  thee  an  Elysian  isle. 
Roses  are  nothing  to  the  maiden  blush 
Sent  o'er  thy  cheek's  soft  ivory,  and  night 
Has  nought  so  dazzling  in  its  world  of  light, 
As  the  dark  rays  that  from  thy  lashes  gush. 
Love  lurks  amid  thy  silken  curls,  and  lies 
Like  a  keen  archer  in  thy  kindling  eyes. 


DION'S  DREAM. 

He  lay  upon  his  couch  by  night, 
Locked  fast  in  sleep ;  for  he  had  been 
Engaged  the  livelong  day  in  fight 
With  warrior-bands  of  foreign  men : 
When,  on  the  moon's  declining  beam, 
There  came  the  Spirit  of  a  dream. 


87 

It  breathed  upon  his  face  the  spell, 
Which  shows  the  future  and  the  past, 
And  bade  him  note  fair  Hellas  well, 
And  see  her  age  of  glory  past. 
"  And  cast  thine  eyes,  chief,  west  and  east, 
And  tell  me,  dreamer,  what  thou  seest." 

And  Dion  saw,  and  lo !  the  land, 
The  land  of  Greece  was  free  no  more ; 
But  o'er  it  ruled  a  turbaned  band, 
Whose  scimitars  were  red  with  gore. 
And  there  a  Spartan  boy,  who  waits 
A  bondman  at  the  conqueror's  gates. 

He  saw  her  sons  the  proselytes 

Of  a  pure  creed — a  faith  divine  ; 

None  pay  the  "  Unknown  God"  high  rites,- 

His  temple  holds  a  holier  shrine. 

'Tis  changed  ;  alas,  at  evening  there 

A  Muezzim  chants  the  Moslem  prayer. 

He  saw  a  wretched  peasant  stand 
Chained  to  his  implements  of  toil ; 
And  there  are  fetters  on  his  hand, 
And  there  are  tears,  but  ne'er  a  smile. 
And  oft  is  upward  cast  his  eye 
In  prayer  to  God,  that  he  may  die. 

He  saw  a  girl  with  golden  locks 
And  polished  brow  and  azure  eye ; 


88 

Why  roves  she  o'er  the  lonely  rocks  ? 
Why  all  the  day  long  weep  and  sigh  ? 
Alas,  her  loveliness  has  caught 
A  haram's  lord,  and  she  is  bought. 

And  o'er  the  Morea,  far  and  wide, 
The  ruthless  sons  of  Islam  stand 
With  every  weapon,  hell  has  tried 
To  work  the  downfall  of  a  land. 
And  Dion  thus  in  sorrow  slept, 
Then  left  his  couch  and  sat  and  wept. 

Again  he  sunk  to  sleep : — again 

He  dreamed.      Upon  that  mount  of  Thrace, 

Which  rises,  as  'tis  said  of  men, 

Ten  thousand  feet  above  its  base, 

He  stood,  and  from  the  height  surveyed 

The  changes  passing  centuries  made. 

Is  that  lost  Greece  he  sees  below  ? 
Where  is  the  glittering  minaret  ? 
And  where  is  he,  the  turbaned  foe, 
The  Othman  surely  rules  her  yet  ? 
No,  rest  thee,  chief,  the  Moslem  thrones 
Cumber  no  land  that  Europe  owns. 

He  sees  upon  a  sunny  slope 
All  festooned  over  with  the  vine, 
A  merry,  laughing,  peasant  group, 
Around  a  vase  of  China  wine. 


And  much  they  talk  of  days  gone  past, 
Ere  Despotism  breathed  his  last. 

He  sees  a  labouring  man  at  work  ; 
His  children,  babes  with  yellow  hair, 
Play  by,  and,  fearless  of  the  Turk, 
Pursue  a  young  bird  fluttering  there, 
And  he,  that  sire,  with  soft  embrace 
Of  those  dear  babes,  joins  in  the  chace. 

And,  emblem  of  the  peace  that  reigns 
Throughout  the  clime,  he  sees  a  maid 
Of  angel  form  forsake  the  plains, 
And  wander  to  the  mountain's  shade, 
All  lonely,  with  her  father's  flocks  ; — 
For  there  's  no  Turk  among  these  rocks. 

What  cloud  is  that,  which,  girt  with  wings, 
Comes  sweeping  where  proud  Corinth  smiles  ? 
No  shadowy  cloud ;  that  vessel  brings 
The  dove  from  far  Atlantic  isles  ; 
Lo  !  o'er  her,  with  a  dark  blue  blent, 
There  waves  a  starry  firmament. 

The  warrior  wakes ;  there  is  no  cloud 
Upon  his  heart ;  the  morning  sun 
Shines  through  his  tent,  and  fierce  and  loud 
Come  shouts,  as  when  the  battles  's  won. 
And  little  taught  by  yester  night, 
The  Satrap  arms  again  for  fight. 
H2 


90 


THE  GLADIATOR. 

They  led  a  lion  from  his  den, 

The  lord  of  Afric's  sun-scorched  plain ; 

And  there  he  stood,  stern  foe  of  men, 

And  shook  his  flowing  mane. 

There  's  not  of  all  Rome's  heroes,  ten 

That  dare  abide  this  game. 

His  bright  eye  nought  of  lightning  lacked ; 

His  voice  was  like  the  cataract. 

They  brought  a  dark-haired  man  along, 

Whose  limbs  with  gyves  of  brass  were  bound  : 

Youthful  he  seemed,  and  bold,  and  strong, 

And  yet  unscathed  of  wound. 

Blithely  he  stepped  among  the  throng, 

And  careless  threw  around 

A  dark  eye,  such  as  courts  the  path 

Of  him,  who  braves  a  Dacian's  wrath. 

Then  shouted  the  plebeian  crowd — 
Rung  the  glad  galleries  with  the  sound  ; 
And  from  the  throne  there  spake  aloud 
A  voice,  "  Be  the  bold  man  unbound  ! 
And,  by  Rome's  sceptre  yet  unbowed, 
By  Rome,  earth's  monarch  crowned, 
Who  dares  the  bold — the  unequal  strife, 
Though  doomed  to  death,  shall  save  his  life.'.' 


91 

Joy  was  upon  that  dark  man's  face, 

And  thus,  with  laughing  eye,  spake  he 

"  Loose  ye  the  lord  of  Zaara's  waste, 

And  let  my  arms  be  free  ; 

4  He  has  a  martial  heart,'  thou  sayest, 

But  oh,  who  will  not  be 

A  hero,  when  he  fights  for  life, 

And  home,  and  country, — babes,  and  wife. 

And  thus  I  for  the  strife  prepare  ; 
The  Thracian  falchion  to  me  bring  ; 
But  ask  th'  imperial  leave  to  spare 
The  shield — a  useless  thing. 
Were  I  a  Samnite's  rage  to  dare, 
Then  o'0r  me  should  I  fling 
The  broad  orb  ;  but  to  lion's  wrath 
The  shield  were  but  a  sword  of  lath." 

And  he  has  bared  his  shining  blade, 
And  springs  he  on  the  shaggy  foe  ; 
Dreadful  the  strife,  but  briefly  played — 
The  desert-king  lies  low, 
His  long  and  loud  death-howl  is  made, 
And  there  must  end  the  show. 
And  when  the  multitude  were  calm, 
The  favourite  freedman  took  the  palm. 

"  Kneel  down,  Rome's  emperor  beside :" 
He  knelt,  that  dark  man  ; — o'er  his  brow 
Was  thrown  a  wreath  in  crimson  died, 


92 

And  fair  words  gild  it  now  : 

"  Thou'rt  the  bravest  youth  that  ever  tried 

To  lay  a  lion  low ; 

And  from  our  presence  forth  thou  go'st 

To  leatf  the  Dacians  of  our  host." 

Then  flushed  his  cheek,  but  not  with  pride. 
And  grieved  and  gloomily  spoke  he  : 
"  My  cabin  stands  where  blithely  glide 
Proud  Danube's  waters  to  the  sea  ; 
I  have  a  young  and  blooming  bride, 
And  I  have  children  three  ; 
No  Roman  wealth  nor  rank  can  give 
Such  joy,  as  in  their  arms  to  live. 

My  wife  sits  at  the  cabin  door, 

With  throbbing  heart  and  swollen  eyes  ; 

While  tears  her  cheek  are  coursing  o'er, 

She  speaks  of  sundered  ties. 

She  bids  my  tender  babes  deplore 

The  death  their  father  dies  ; 

She  tells  these  jewels  of  my  home, 

I  bleed  to  please  the  rout  of  Rome. 

I  cannot  let  those  cherubs  stray 
Without  their  sire's  protecting  care  ; 
And  I  would  chase  the  griefs  away 
Which  cloud  my  wedded  fair." 
The  monarch  spoke,  the  guards  obey,. 
And  gates  unclosed  are ; 


He  is  gone — no  golden  bribes  divide 
The  Dacian  from  his  babes  and  bride. 


TRUE  GREATNESS. 

There  is  a  fire,  that  has  its  birth 
Above  the  proudest  hills  of  earth  ; 
And  higher  than  the  eternal  snows, 
The  fountain  whence  it  rose. 

It  came  to  man  in  ancient  days, 
And  fell  upon  his  ardent  gaze, 
A  god  descending  in  his  car, 
The  Spirit  of  a  star. 

And  as  the  glorious  vision  broke 
Full  on  his  eye,  at  once  he  woke, 
And  with  the  rush  of  battling  steeds 
He  sprang  to  generous  deeds. 

Then  first  he  stood  erect  and  free, 
And  in  the  might  of  destiny 
A  stern,  unconquerable  fate 

Compelled  him  to  be  great. 

He  strove  not  for  the  wreath  of  fame  ; 

From  heaven,  the  power  that  moved  him,  came, 


94 

And  welcome,  as  the  mountain  air, 
The  voice  that  bade  him  dare. 

Onward  he  bore,  and  battled  still 
With  a  most  firm,  enduring  will, 
His  only  hope,  to  win  and  rise, 
His  only  aim — the  skies. 

He  saw  their  glories  blaze  afar ; 
A  soul  looked  down  from  every  star, 
And  from  its  eye  of  lightning  flew 

A  glance,  that  thrilled  him  through. 

Full  in  the  front  of  war  he  stood ; 
His  home,  his  country,  claimed  his  blood  : 
Without  one  sigh  that  blood  was  given  ; 
He  only  thought  —  of  Heaven. 


MARCH. 

The  stormy  March  is  come  at  last, 
With  wind  and  cloud  and  changing  skies, 

I  hear  the  rushing  of  the  blast 

That  through  the  snowy  valley  flies. 

Ah,  passing  few  are  they  who  speak, 
Wild  stormy  montk !  in  praise  of  thee  ; 


95 

Yet,  though  thy  winds  are  loud  and  bleak, 
Thou  art  a  welcome  month  to  me. 

For  thou,  to  northern  lands  again, 
The  glad  and  glorious  sun  dost  bring, 

And  thou  hast  joined  the  gentle  train 
And  wear'st  the  gentle  name  of  Spring. 

And,  in  thy  reign  of  blast  and  storm, 
Smiles  many  a  long,  bright,  sunny  day, 

When  the  changed  winds  are  soft  and  warm, 
And  heaven  puts  on  the  blue  of  May. 

Then  sing  aloud  the  gushing  rills 

And  the  full  springs,  from  frost  set  free, 

That,  brightly  leaping  down  the  hills, 
Are  just  set  out  to  meet  the  sea. 

The  year's  departing  beauty  hides 
Of  wintry  storms  the  sullen  threat ; 

But,  in  thy  sternest  frown,  abides 
A  look  of  kindly  promise  yet. 

Thou  bring'st  the  hope  of  those  calm  skies 
And  that  soft  time  of  sunny  showers, 

When  the  wide  bloom,  on  earth  that  lies, 
Seems  of  a  brighter  world  than  ours. 


1)6 


AN  APRIL  DAY. 

When  the  warm  sun,  that  brings 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  has  returned  again, 
'Tis  sweet  to  visit  the  still  wood,  where  springs 

The  first  flower  of  the  plain. 

I  love  the  season  well 

When  forest  glades  are  teeming  with  bright  forms, 
Nor  dark  and  many-folded  clouds  foretell 

The  coming-in  of  storms. 

From  the  earth's  loosened  mould 
The  sapling  draws  its  sustenance,  and  thrives : 
Though  stricken  to  the  heart  with  winter's  cold, 

The  drooping  tree  revives. 

The  softly- warbled  song 

Comes  through  the  pleasant  woods,  and  coloured  wings 
Are  glancing  in  the  golden  sun  along 

The  forest  openings. 

And  when  bright  sunset  fills 

The  silver  woods  with  light,  the  green  slope  throws 
Its  shadows  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills, 

And  wide  the  upland  glows. 

And  when  the  day  is  gone, 
In  the  blue  lake  the  sky  o'erreaching  far 


97 

Is  hollowed  out,  and  the  moon  dips  her  horn, 
And  twinkles  many  a  star. 

Inverted  in  the  tide 

Stand  the  gray  rocks,  and  trembling  shadows  throw. 
And  the  fair  trees  look  over,  side  by  side, 

And  see  themselves  below. 

Sweet  April ! — many  a  thought 
Is  wedded  unto  thee,  as  hearts  are  wed ; 
Nor  shall  they  fail,  till  to  its  autumn  brought 

Life's  golden  fruit  is  shed. 


THE  REIGN  OP    MAY. 

I  feel  a  newer  life  in  every  gale  ; 

The  winds,  that  fan  the  flowers, 
And  with  their  welcome  breathings  fill  the  sail, 

Tell  of  serener  hours, — 
Of  hours  that  glide  unfelt  away 

Beneath  the  sky  of  May. 

The  spirit  of  the  gentle  south-wind  calls 

From  his  blue  throne  of  air, 
And  where  his  whispering  voice  in  music  falls, 

Beauty  is  budding  there ; 
The  bright  ones  of  the  valley  break 

Their  slumbers  and  awake. 


The  waving  verdure  rolls  along  the  plain, 

And  the  wide  forest  weaves, 
To  welcome  back  its  playful  mates  again, 

A  canopy  of  leaves  ; 
And  from  its  darkening  shadow  floats 

A  gush  of  trembling  notes. 

Fairer  and  brighter  spreads  the  reign  of  May  ; 

The  tresses  of  the  woods, 
With  the  light  dallying  of  the  west- wind  play, 

And  the  full-brimming  floods, 
As  gladly  to  their  goal  they  run,       ^ 

Hail  the  returning  sun. 


AFTER  A  TEMPEST. 

The  day  had  been  a  day  of  wind  and  storm ; — 

The  wind  was  laid,  the  storm  was  overpast, — 
And  stooping  from  the  zenith,  bright  and  warm, 

Shone  the  great  sun  on  the  wide  earth  at  last. 

I  stood  upon  the  upland  slope  and  cast 
My  eye  upon  a  broad  and  beauteous  scene, 

Where  the  vast  plain  lay  girt  by  mountains  vast, 
And  hills  o'er  hills  lifted  their  heads  of  green, 
With  pleasant  vales  scooped  out  and  villages  between. 

The  rain-drops  glistened  on  the  trees  around, 
Whose  shadows  on  the  tall  grass  were  not  stirred. 


99 

Save  when  a  shower  of  diamonds,  to  the  ground, 
Was  shaken  by  the  flight  of  startled  bird ; 
For  birds  were  warbling  round,  and  bees  were  heard 

About  the  flowers  ;  the  cheerful  rivulet  sung 
And  gossiped,  as  he  hastened  ocean-ward ; 

To  the  gray  oak  the  squirrel,  chiding,  clung, 

And  chirping  from  the  ground  the  grasshopper  up- 
sprung. 

And  from  beneath  the  leaves  that  kept  them  dry 

Flew  many  a  glittering  insect  here  and  there, 
And  darted  up  and  down  the  butterfly, 

That  seemed  a  living  blossom  of  the  air. 

The  flocks  came  scattering  from  the  thicket,  where 
The  violent  rain  had  pent  them,  in  the  way 

Strolled  groups  of  damsels  frolicksome  and  fair, 
The  farmer  swung  the  scythe  or  turned  the  hay, 
And  'twixt  the  heavy  swaths  his  children  were  at  play. 

It  was  a  scene  of  peace — and,  like  a  spell, 

Did  that  serene  and  golden  sunlight  fall 
Upon  the  motionless  wood  that  clothed  the  cell, 

And  precipice  upspringing  like  a  wall, 

And  glassy  river  and  white  waterfall, 
And  happy  living  things  that  trod  the  bright 

And  beauteous  scene  ;  while,  far  beyond  them  all, 
On  many  a  lovely  valley,  out  of  sight, 
Was  poured  from  the  blue  heavens  the  same  soft 
golden  light. 


100 

I  looked,  and  thought  the  quiet  of  the  scene 
An  emblem  of  the  peace  that  yet  shall  be, 

When  o'er  earth's  continents  and  isles  between, 
The  noise  of  war  shall  cease  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  married  nations  dwell  in  harmony. 

When  millions,  crouching-  in  the  dust  to  one, 
No  more  shall  beg  their  lives  on  bended  knee, 

Nor  the  black  stake  be  dressed,  nor  in  the  sun 

The  o'erlaboured  captive  toil,  and  wish  his  life  were 
done. 

Too  long  at  clash  of  arms  amid  her  bowers 
And  pools  of  blood,  the  earth  has  stood  aghast, 

The  fair  earth,  that  should  only  blush  with  flowers 
And  ruddy  fruits  ;  but  not  for  aye  can  last 
The  storm,  and  sweet  the  sunshine  when  'tis  past ; 

Lo,  the  clouds  roll  away — they  break — they  fly, 
And,  like  the  glorious  light  of  summer,  cast 

O'er  the  wide  landscape  from  the  embracing  sky, 

On  all  the  peaceful  world  the  smile  of  heaven  shall  lie. 


SUMMER  WIND. 

It  is  a  sultry  day ;  the  sun  has  drank 
The  dew  that  lay  upon  the  morning  grass, 
There  is  no  rustling  in  the  lofty  elm 
That  canopies  my  dwelling,  and  its  shade 


101 

Scarce  cools  me.    All  is  silent  save  the  fainf; 
And  interrupted  murmur  of  the  bee, 
Settling  on  the  sick  flowers,  arid  then  again 
Instantly  on  the  wing.    The  plants  around 
Feel  the  too  potent  fervours ;  the  tall  maize 
Rolls  up  its  long  green  leaves  ;  the  clover  droops 
Its  tender  foliage,  and  declines  its  blooms. 
But  far  in  the  fierce  sunshine  tower  the  hills, 
With  all  their  growth  of  woods,  silent  and  stern, 
As  if  the  scorching  heat  and  dazzling  light 
Were  but  an  element  they  loved.     Bright  clouds, 
Motionless  pillars  of  the  brazen  heaven, — 
Their  bases  on  the  mountains — their  white  tops 
Shining  in  the  far  ether — fire  the  air 
With  a  reflected  radiance,  and  make  turn 
The  gazer's  eye  away.     For  me,  I  lie 
Languidly  in  the  shade,  where  the  thick  turf, 
Yet  virgin  from  the  kisses  of  the  sun, 
Retains  some  freshness,  and  I  woo  the  wind 
That  still  delays  its  coming.     Why  so  slow, 
Gentle  and  voluble  spirit  of  the  air? 
Oh  come  and  breathe  upon  the  fainting  earth 
Coolness  and  life.     Is  it  that  in  his  caves 
He  hears  me  ?     See,  on  yonder  woody  ridge, 
The  pine  is  bending  his  proud  top,  and  now, 
Among  the  nearer  groves,  chesnut  and  oak 
Are  tossing  their  green  boughs  about.    He  comes  ! 
Lo  where  the  grassy  meadow  runs  in  waves  ! 
The  deep  distressful  silence  of  the  scene 
Breaks  up  with  mingling  of  unnumbered  sounds 
12 


102 

And  universal  motion.    He  is  come, 
Shaking  a  shower  of  blossoms  from  the  shrubs 
And  bearing  on  their  fragrance  ;  and  he  brings 
Music  of  birds  and  rustling  of  young  boughs, 
And  sound  of  swaying  branches,  and  the  voice 
Of  distant  waterfalls.    All  the  green  herbs 
Are  stirring  in  his  breath,  a  thousand  flowers, 
By  the  road-side  and  the  borders  of  the  brook, 
Nod  gaily  to  each  other,  glossy  leaves 
Are  twinkling  in  the  sun,  as  if  the  dew 
Were  on  them  yet,  and  silver  waters  break 
Into  small  waves  and  sparkle  as  he  comes. 


AUTUMN. 

With  what  glory  comes  and  goes  the  year ! — 
The  buds  of  spring, — those  beautiful  harbingers 
Of  sunny  skies  and  cloudless  times, — enjoy 
Life's  newness,  and  earth's  garniture  spread  out ; 
And  when  the  silver  habit  of  the  clouds 
Comes  down  upon  the  autumn  sun,  and  with 
A  sober  gladness  the  old  year  takes  up 
His  bright  inheritance  of  golden  fruits, 
A  pomp  and  pageant  fill  the  splendid  scene. 

There  is  a  beautiful  spirit  breathing  now 
Its  mellow  richness  on  the  clustered  trees, 


103 

And  from  a  beaker  full  of  richest  dyes 
Pouring  new  glory  on  the  autumn  woods, 
And  dipping  in  warm  light  the  pillared  clouds. 
Morn  on  the  mountain,  like  a  summer  bird, 
Lifts  up  her  purple  wing,  and  in  the  vales 
The  gentle  wind,  a  sweet  and  passionate  wooer, 
Kisses  the  blushing  leaf,  and  stirs  up  life 
Within  the  solemn  woods  of  ash  deep-crimsoned, 
And  silver  beach,  and  maple  yellow-leaved, — 
Where  autumn,  like  a  faint  old  man,  sits  down 
By  the  way-side  a-weary.    Through  the  trees 
The  golden  robin  moves  ;  the  purple  finch, 
That  on  wild  cherry  and  red  cedar  feeds, — 
A  winter  bird, — comes  with  its  plaintive  whistle, 
And  pecks  by  the  witch-hazel,  whilst  aloud 
From  cottage  roofs  the  warbling  blue-bird  sings  ; 
And  merrily  with  oft-repeated  stroke 
Sounds  from  the  threshing-floor  the  busy  flail. 

O  what  a  glory  doth  this  world  put  on 
For  him  that  with  a  fervent  heart  goes  forth 
Under  the  bright  and  glorious  sky,  and  looks 
On  duties  well  performed,  and  days  well  spent ! 
For  him  the  wind,  aye,  the  yellow  leaves 
Shall  have  a  voice,  and  give  him  eloquent  teachings.': 
He  shall  so  hear  the  solemn  hymn,  that  Death 
Has  lifted  up  for  all,  that  he  shall  go 
To  his  long  resting-placo  without  a  tear. 


104 


MORNING  TWILIGHT. 

The  mountains  are  blue  in  the  morning-  air, 
And  the  woods  are  sparkling  with  dewy  light ; 
The  winds,  as  they  wind  through  the  hollows,  bear 
The  breath  of  the  blossoms  that  wake  by  night. 
Wide  o'er  the  bending  meadows  roll 
The  mists,  like  a  lightly  moving  sea  ; 
The  sun  is  not  risen — and  over  the  whole 
There  hovers  a  silent  mystery. 

The  pure  blue  sky  is  in  calm  repose  ; 

The  pillowy  clouds  are  sleeping  there  ; 

So  stilly  the  brook  in  its  covert  flows, 

You  would  think  its  murmur  a  breath  of  air. 

The  water  that  floats  in  the  glassy  pool, 

Half  hid  by  the  willows  that  line  its  brink, 

In  its  deep  recess  has  a  look  so  cool, 

One  would  worship  its  nymph,  as  he  bent  to  drink. 

Pure  and  beautiful  thoughts,  at  this  early  hour, 
Go  off  to  the  home  of  the  bright  and  blessed  ; 
They  steal  on  the  heart  with  an  unseen  power, 
And  its  passionate  throbbings  are  laid  at  rest : 
O !  who  would  not  catch,  from  the  quiet  sky 
And  the  mountains  that  soar  in  the  hazy  air, 
When  his  harbinger  tells  that  the  sun  is  nigh. 
The  visions  of  bliss  that  are  floating  there. 


105 


TO  A  CLOUD. 

Beautiful  cloud  !  with  folds  so  soft  and  fair, 

Swimming  in  the  pure  quiet  air ! 
Thy  fleeces  bathed  in  sunlight,  while  below 

Thy  shadow  o'er  the  vale  moves  slow  : 
Where,  'midst  their  labour,  pause  the  reaper  train 

As  cool  it  comes  along  the  grain. 
Beautiful  cloud  !  I  would  I  were  with  thee 

In  thy  calm  way  o'er  land  and  sea : 
To  rest  on  thy  unrolling  skirts,  and  look 

On  Earth  as  on  an  open  book  ; 
On  streams  that  tie  her  realms  with  silver  bands, 

And  the  long  ways  that  seam  her  lands  ; 
And  hear  her  humming  cities,  and  the  sound 

Of  waves  that  chafe  their  rocky  bound. 
Aye — I  would  sail  upon  thy  air-borne  car 

To  blooming  regions  distant  far, 
To  where  the  sun  of  Andalusia  shines 

On  his  own  olive  groves  and  vines, 
Or  the  soft  lights  of  Italy's  bright  sky 

In  smiles  upon  her  ruins  lie. 
But  I  would  woo  the  winds  to  let  us  rest 

O'er  Greece  long  fettered  and  opprest, 
Whose  sons  at  length  have  heard  the  call  that  comes 

From  the  old  battle  fields  and  tombs, 
And  risen,  and  drawn  the  sword,  and,  on  the  foe, 

Have  dealt  the  swift  and  desperate  blow, 


106 

And  the  Othman  power  is  cloven,  and  the  stroke 
Has  touched  its  chains,  and  they  are  broke. 

Aye,  we  would  linger  till  the  sunset  there 
Should  come,  to  purple  all  the  air, 

And  thou  reflect  upon  the  sacred  ground, 
The  ruddy  radiance  streaming  round. 

Bright  meteor  !  for  the  summer  noontide  made  ! 

Thy  peerless  beauty  yet  shall  fade. 
The  sun,  that  fills  with  light  each  glistening  fold, 

Shall  set,  and  leave  thee  dark  and  cold  : 
The  blast  shall  rend  thy  skirts,  or  thou  may'st  frown 

In  the  dark  heaven  when  storms  come  down, 
And  weep  in  rain,  till  man's  inquiring  eye 

Miss  thee,  forever,  from  the  sky. 


AUTUMNAL  NIGHTFALL. 

Round  Autumn's  mouldering  urn, 
Loud  mourns  the  chill  and  cheerless  gale, 
When  nightfall  shades  the  quiet  vale, 

And  stars  in  beauty  burn. 

'Tis  the  year's  eventide. 
The  wind, — like  one  that  sighs  in  pain 
O'er  joys  that  ne'er  will  bloom  again, 

Mourns  on  the  far  hill-side. 


107 

And  yet  my  pensive  eye 
Rests  on  the  faint  blue  mountain  long-, 
And  for  the  fairy-land  of  song, 

That  lies  beyond,  I  sigh. 

The  moon  unveils  her  brow  ; 
In  the  mid-sky  her  urn  glows  bright, 
And  in  her  pale  and  mellow  light 

The  valley  sleeps  below. 

I  stand  deep  musing  here, 
Beneath  the  dark  and  motionless  beech, 
Whilst  wandering  winds  of  nightfall  reach 

My  melancholy  ear. 

The  air  breathes  chill  and  free ; 
A  Spirit,  in  soft  music,  calls 
From  Autumn's  gray  and  moss-grown  halls, 

And  round  her  withered  tree. 

The  hoar  and  mantled  oak, 
With  moss  and  twisted  ivy  brown, 
Bends  in  its  lifeless  beauty  down 

Where  weeds  the  fountain  choke. 

Leaves,  that  the  night-wind  bears 
To  earth's  cold  bosom  with  a  sigh, 
Are  types  of  our  mortality, 

And  of  our  fading  years. 


108 

The  tree  that  shades  the  plain, 
Wasting  and  hoar  as  time  decays, 
Spring  shall  renew  with  cheerful  days, — . 

But  not  my  joys  again. 


AUTUMN  WOODS. 

Ere,  in  the  northern  gale, 
The  summer  tresses  of  the  trees  are  gone, 
The  woods  of  Autumn,  all  around  our  vale, 

Have  put  their  glory  on. 

The  mountains  that  infold 

In  their  wide  sweep,  the  coloured  landscape  round, 
Seem  groups  of  giant  kings  in  purple  arid  gold, 

That  guard  the  enchanted  ground. 

I  roam  the  woods  that  crown 
The  upland,  where  the  mingled  splendours  glow, 
Where  the  gay  company  of  trees  look  down 

On  the  green  fields  below. 

My  steps  are  not  alone 

In  these  bright  walks ;  the  sweet  southwest,  at  play, 
Flies,  rustling,  where  the  painted  leaves  are  strown 

Along  the  winding  way. 


109 

And  far  in  heaven,  the  while, 
The  sun,  that  sends  that  gale  to  wander  here, 
Pours  out  on  the  fair  earth  his  quiet  smile, — 

The  sweetest  of  the  year. 

Where  now  the  solemn  shade, 
Verdure  and  gloom  where  many  branches  meet ; 
So  grateful,  when  the  noon  of  summer  made 

The  valleys  sick  with  heat  ? 

Let  in  through  all  the  trees 

Come  the  strange  rays ;  the  forest  depths  are  bright ; 
Their  sunny-coloured  foliage,  in  the  breeze, 

Twinkles,  like  beams  of  light. 

The  rivulet,  late  unseen, 

Where  bickering  through  the  shrubs  its  waters  run. 
Shines  with  the  image  of  its  golden  screen, 

And  glimmerings  of  the  sun. 

But,  'neath  yon  crimson  tree, 
Lover  to  listening  maid  might  breathe  his  flame, 
Nor  mark,  within  its  roseate  canopy, 

Her  blush  of  maiden  shame. 

Oh,  Autumn !  why  so  soon 
'Depart  the  hues  that  make  thy  forests  glad ; 
Thy  gentle  wind  and  thy  fair  sunny  noon. 

And  leave  thee  wild  and  sad ! 


110 

Ah,  't  were  a  lot  too  blest 
Forever  in  thy  coloured  shades  to  stray  ; 
Amidst  the  kisses  of  the  soft  southwest 

To  rove  and  dream  for  aye  ; 

And  leave  the  vain  low  strife 

That  makes  men  mad — the  tug  for  wealth  and  power, 
The  passions  and  the  cares  that  wither  life, 

And  waste  its  little  hour. 


AUTUMNAL  HYMN  OF  THE  HUSBANDMAN. 

Now  we  rest  from  our  toils,  Lord,  our  labours  are  done, 
Our  meadows  are  bared  to  the  kiss  of  the  sun ; 
We  have  winnowed  the  wheat, — well  our  toil  it  repays, 
And  our  oxen  have  eaten  the  husks  of  the  maize. 

We  gathered  our  harvests ;  with  strength  in  each  limb 
Toiled  the  mower ;  the  ripe  grass  bowed  prostrate  to 

him; 

And  the  reaper,  as  nimbly  he  felled  the  proud  grain, 
Was  blither  than  those  who  wear  sceptres  and  reign. 

And  tfre  wheat  blade  was  tall,  and  the  full,  golden  ear 
Proclaimed  that  the  months  of  rejoicing  were  near ; 
The  grape  in  rich  clusters  hung,  promising  mirth, 
And  the  boughs  of  the  apple-tree  slept  on  the  earth. 


Ill 

Did  we  thank  thee,  then,  God  of  the  seasons  ?  Oh  no ! 
We  were  prompt  in  accepting  thy  favours,  but  slow 
Were  our  lips  to  give  thanks  for  the  rich  gifts,  thy  hand 
Showered  thick  on  the  maize-littered  vales  of  our  land. 

Thou  hast  rained  on  us  manna,  Lord, — yet  we  are  mute ; 
Though  summer's  all  smiles,  of  thy  love  are  the  fruit, 
Springs  and  autumns,  as  fair  as  the  Orient  boasts, 
Dawn  on  us, — yet  faint  are  our  tongues,  Lord  of  Hosts ! 

Now  we  raise  our  glad  voices — in  gratitude  raise, 
And  we  waft  on  the  beams  of  the  morning  our  praise ; 
We  thank  thee  for  golden  grain  gathered  in  shock, 
And  the  milk  of  the  kine,  and  the  fleece  of  the  flock. 

And  we  thank  thee  for  limbs  moving  light  to  the  task , 
For  hearts  beating  high,  though  unwarmed  of  the  flask, 
Fill  us,  Lord,  with  just  sense  of  thy  bounty,  and  give 
Health  to  us,  and  to  all  in  the  land  where  we  live. 


WOODS  IN  WINTER. 

When  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 

And  through  the  white-thorn  blows  the  gale, 

With  solemn  feet  I  tread  the  hill, 
That  over-brows  the  lonely  vale. 


112 

O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 

Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods, 
The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 

And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 

On  the  gray  maple's  crusted  bark 
Its  tender  shoots  the  hoar-frost  nips  ; 

Whilst  in  the  frozen  fountain — hark  ! 
His  piercing  beak  the  bittern  dips. 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 
The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke, — 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 

Where  from  their  frozen  urns  mute  springs 

Pour  out  the  river's  gradual  tide, 
Shrilly  the  skater's  iron  rings, 

And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 

Alas  ! — how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay  ; 

And  winds  were  soft — and  woods  were  green- 
And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day. 

But  still  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods !  within  your  crowd  ; 
And  gathered  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 

Arnid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 


113 

Chill  airs,  and  wintry  wii.ds  !  my  ear 
Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song  ; 

I  hear  it  in  the  opening  yt  ~— 
I  listen,  and  it  cheers  me  ^ong. 


A  SONG  OF  SAVOY. 

As  the  dim  twilight  shrouds 

The  mountain's  purple  crest, 
And  summer's  white  and  folded  clouds 

Are  glowing  in  the  west, 
Loud  shouts  come  up  the  rocky  dell, 
And  voices  hail  the  evening  bell. 

Faint  is  the  goatherd's  song, 
And  sighing  comes  the  breeze  : 

The  silent  river  sweeps  along 
Amid  its  bending  trees, — 

And  the  full  moon  shines  faintly  there, 

And  music  fills  the  evening  air. 

Beneath  the  waving  firs 

The  tinkling  cymbals  sound  ; 
And  as  the  wind  the  foliage  stirs, 

I  see  the  dancers  bound 
Where  the  green  branches,  arched  above, 
Bend  over  this  fair  scene  of  love. 

K2 


114 

And  he  is  there,  that  sought 

My  young  heart  long  ago  ! 
But  he  has  left  me, — though  I  thought 

He  ne'er  could  leave  me  so. 
Ah  !  lovers'  vows, — how  frail  are  they  !— 
And  his — were  made  but  yesterday. 

Why  comes  he  not  ?  I  call 

In  tears  upon  him  yet ; — 
'T  were  better  ne'er  to  love  at  all, 

Than  love,  and  then  forget ! 
Why  comes  he  not  ?  Alas !  I  should 
Reclaim  him  still,  if  weeping  could. 

But  see,— ^he  leaves  the  glade, 

And  beckons  me  away  : 
He  comes  to  seek  his  mountain  maid !— - 

I  cannot  chide  his  stay. 
Glad  sounds  along  the  valley  swell, 
And  voices  hail  the  evening  belL 


REBECCA  TO  ROWENA. 


"  Lady,  I've  looked  upon  thy  face  ; 
And  beauty,  kindness,  virtue,  grace, 

Have  all  combined  to  make  thee  fair 
O  !  may  thy  fortunes  be  as  bright, 


115 

As  are  those  eyes,  whose  gentle  light 
Thy  features  now  so  softly  wear. 

Lady,  I  love  thee,  for  thou  art 

The  bride  of  him  to  whom  my  heart — " 

She  paused  and  turned  aside — a  tear 
Flowed  from  her  eye — "  O  !  I  am  weak, 
Forgive  me,  but  I  cannot  speak 

Of  him  who  is  to  thee  so  dear ; 

To  whom  I  owe  my  honour,  life  ; 
Who  fought  so  nobly  at  the  strife, — 

The  mortal  strife  of  Templestowe, — • 
For  a  poor  Jewish  maiden,  whom 
All  other  men  left  to  her  doom, 

As  if  she  were  of  man  the  foe. 

My  blessing  on  him — fare  thee  well ; 
Long  in  my  heart  thy  form  shall  dwell 

Enshrined  ;  and  when  I  think  of  thee, 
Joyful  shall  be  the  tears  I  shed, 
That  Heaven  has  poured  upon  thy  head 

Its  richest  gifts. — Lady,  thou'lt  see 

My  face  no  more  ;  I  go  away 

To  other  lands — men  shall  not  say, 

That  the  poor  Jewess  lives  a  slave ! 
No,  my  despised,  degraded  race 
In  this  fair  land  can  have  no  place. 

Yet,  though  the  darkly-rolling  wave 


116 

Divide  us  while  we  live  on  earth, 
We  meet  again ; — my  lowly  birth, 

The  scorn  which  all  have  freely  given 
As  if  it  were  my  birth-right  here, 
Are  nought ; — my  humble,  fervent  prayer 

The  God  of  Israel  shall  hear; — we  meet  in  Heaven. 


PAINTING— A  PERSONIFICATION. 

One  bright  sunshiny  autumn  day, 

When  the  leaves  were  just  beginning  to  fade, 

I  saw  a  gay  and  laughing  maid 

Stand  by  the  side  of  a  public  way. 

There  she  stood  erect  and  tall ; 

Her  flowery  cheek  had  caught  the  dyes 

Of  the  earliest  dawn — and  O!  her  eyes, 

Not  a  star  that  shoots  or  flies, 

But  those  dark  eyes  outshine  them  all. 

She  stood  with  a  long  and  slender  wand, 
With  a  tassel  of  hair  at  its  pointed  tip  ; 
And  fast  as  the  dews  from  a  forest  drip, 
When  a  summer  shower  has  bathed  the  land, 
So  quick  a  thousand  colours  came, 
Darting  along  like  shapes  of  flame, 
At  every  turn  of  her  gliding  hand* 


117 

She  gave  a  form  to  the  bodiless  air, 
And  clear  as  a  mirrored  sheet  it  lay ; 
And  phantoms  would  come  and  pass  away, 
As  her  magical  rod  was  pointed  there. 

First,  the  shape  of  a  budding  rose, 
Just  unfolding  its  tender  leaf; 
Then,  all  unbound  its  virgin  zone, 
Full  in  its  pride  and  beauty  blown, 
It  heavily  hangs  like  a  nodding  sheaf; 
And  a  cloud  of  perfume  around  it  flows. 

Then  a  mingling  of  vale  and  hill, 

Hung  around  with  a  woody  screen — 

O  !  how  alive  its  quivering  green  ; 

And  there  a  babbling  brook  is  seen 

To  turn  the  wheel  of  a  moss-grown  mill : 

There  is  a  clear  and  glassy  pool, 

And  a  boy  lies  idly  along  its  brink, 

And  he  drops  a  pebble  to  see  it  sink 

Down  in  that  depth,  so  calm  and  cool ; 

And  out  from  behind  a  bowering  tree 

There  peeps  a  maiden  crowned  with  flowers : 

The  two  are  innocent  paramours — 

At  her  delicate  laugh  he  turns  to  see, 

And  then  she  darts  like  a  frighted  fawn 

That  springs  away  from  the  turfy  lawn, 

And  far  in  the  tangled  thicket  cowers — 

So  she  flies  in  her  haste  to  hide 

The  blush  that  mantles  her  cheek  and  brow  ; 


118 

Then  he  languidly  turns  his  eye  aside 

To  the  quiet  brook's  eternal  flow. 

There  you  may  see  a  warrior  horse, 

All  his  trappings  are  dropped  with  gold — 

How  his  eye  sparkles !  and  O !  how  bold, 

As  he  springs  away  in  his  pride  and  force. 

There  a  dark  and  keen-eyed  Moor 

Hangs  and  pulls  at  his  bridle  rein, 

But  all  his  skill  and  might  are  vain  ; 

He  prances  and  tosses — and  hark  !  away, 

Bright  as  the  flashing  steeds  of  day, 

He  has  broke  from  his  keeper,  and  flings  his  mane, 

Like  a  streaming  meteor,  over  the  plain. 

Can  you  not  see  the  creature  neigh, 

In  his  vapoury  nostrils  panting  wide, 

In  his  tossing  head  and  his  arch  of  pride, 

And  his  rapid  glance  from  side  to  side, 

As  he  stands  and  beats  the  echoing  ground 

With  quivering  tramp,  and  sudden  bound  ? 

Then  with  a  tremble  in  every  limb, 

And  an  angry  snort  he  darts  away, 

And  round  in  a  circle  he  seems  to  swim, 

Or  bends  and  turns  like  a  lamb  at  play. 

What  is  that  comes  from  a  golden  cloud, 
Floating  along  in  thinnest  air — 
Was  there  ever  a  shape  so  fine  and  fair  ? 
And  O !  what  wealth  of  sunny  hair 
Clings  around  like  a  glittering  shroud— 


119 

Sec !  she  raises  a  snowy  arm, 
Pure  as  a  flake,  ere  it  leaves  the  sky — 
She  waves  it  around  with  a  grace  and  a  charm, 
And  putting  her  glossy  ringlets  by, 
Shows  to  the  sight  a  lip  and  eye  ; — 
Is  it  a  shape  of  light  and  air, 
A  vermeil  cloud,  and  a  midnight  star, 
That  meet  and  mingle  in  glory  there, 
Or  one  of  the  winged  spirits  that  fly 
Like  the  prophet  who  rose  in  his  fiery  car  ? 
|  No,  't  is  a  being  of  human  mould, 
;  Changing  with  blush,  and  tear,  and  smile, 
Such  as  the  bard  in  his  lonely  isle, 
!  Close  to  his  heart  would  love  to  fold. 
i  Back  she  throws  her  tossing  curls, 
|  Cheek,  and  brow,  and  neck  are  bare, 
Tenderly  crimson  and  purely  fair, 
Lake  a  damask  rose  when  it  first  unfurls 
Its  feathery  bosom  to  light  and  air. 
Now  that  world  of  grace  is  calm, 
Sweeter  and  dearer,  but  not  so  bright, — 
Like  a  flower  when  it  sends  the  dew  of  night 
Back  from  its  breast  in  a  cloud  of  balm. 
See  on  her  lids  the  gathering  tear, 
Clear  as  a  star  in  the  midnight  main, 
Such  she  might  drop  on  her  mother's  bier, 
Or  shed  for  the  youth  who  has  long  been  dear, 
When  she  parts  and  never  may  meet  again — 
O !  what  flashes  of  glory  break 
From  that  crystalline  fount  of  love  and  joy ; 


120 

All  her  smiles  and  glances  wake, 

And  those  opening  lips  such  music  make, 

As  rings  from  the  heart  of  the  hunter  boy, 

When  he  springs  through  the  forest,  fleet  and  proud 

And  the  startled  echoes  are  many  and  loud, 

Loud  as  the  burst  of  a  nation's  joy, 

In  the  rocks  that  girdle  the  mountain  lake. 

Now  for  the  touch  of  a  master  hand — 
See !  how  she  poises  and  waves  her  wand, 
As  if  in  a  dream  of  busy  thought 
She  sought  for  visions  and  found  them  not. 
Now  it  rises — and  look — what  power 
Springs  to  life,  as  she  lifts  her  rod — 
Is  it  a  hero,  or  visible  god, 
Or  bard  in  his  rapt  and  gifted  hour  ? 
What  a  lofty  and  glorious  brow, 
Bent  like  a  temple's  towering  arch, 
As  if  that  a  wondering  world  might  march 
To  the  altar  of  mind,  and  kneel  and  bow  ; — 
And  then  what  a  deep  and  spirited  eye, 
Quick  as  a  quivering  orb  of  fire, 
Changing  and  shifting  from  love  to  ire, 
Like  the  lights  in  a  summer-evening  sky  ; — 
Then  the  living  and  breathing  grace 
Sent  from  the  whole  of  that  magic  face, 
The  eloquent  play  of  his  lips,  the  smile 
Sporting  in  sunbeams  there  awhile, 
Then  with  the  throb  of  passion  pressed 
Like  a  shivering  leaf  that  cannot  rest, — 


121 

And  still  as  a  lake  when  it  waits  a  storm, 
That  wraps  the  mountain's  giant  form, 
When  they  lie  in  the  shade  of  his  awful  frown, 
And  his  gathered  brows  are  wrinkled  down. 

Such  the  visions  that  breathe  and  live, 
The  playful  touch  of  her  wand  can  give. 


RIZPAH. 

And  he  delivered  them  into  the  hands  of  the  Gibeonites,  and  they 
hanged  them  in  the  hill  before  the  Lord  ;  and  they  fell  all  seven  to- 
gether, and  were  put  to  death  in  the  da}'s  of  the  harvest,  in  the  first 
days,  in  the  beginning  of  barley-harvest. 

And  Rizpah,  the  daughter  of  Aiah,  took  sackcloth,  and  spread  it  for 
her  upon  the  rock,  from  the  beginning  of  harvest  until  the  water  drop- 
ped upon  them  out  of  heaven,  and  suffered  neither  the  birds  of  the  air 
to  rest  upon  them  by  day,  nor  the  beasts  of  the  field  by  night. 

2  Samuel,  xxi.  9. 30, 

Hear  what  the  desolate  Rizpah  said, 
As  on  Gibeah's  rocks  she  watched  the  dead. 
The  sons  of  Michel  before  her  lay, 
And  her  own  fair  children,  dearer  than  they : 
By  a  death  of  shame  they  all  had  died, 
And  were  stretched  on  the  bare  rock,  side  by  side. 
And  Rizpah,  once  the  loveliest  of  all 
That  bloomed  and  smiled  in  the  court  of  Saul, 
All  wasted  with  watching  and  famine  now, 
And  scorched  by  the  sun  her  haggard  brow, 
L 


Sat,  mournfully  guarding  their  corpses  there, 
And  murmured  a  strange  and  solemn  air ; 
The  low,  heart-broken,  and  wailing  strain 
Of  a  mother  that  mourns  her  children  slain. 

I  have  made  the  crags  my  home,  and  spread 
On  their  desert  backs  my  sackcloth  bed ; 
I  have  eaten  the  bitter  herb  of  the  rocks, 
And  drank  the  midnight  dew  in  my  locks ; 
I  have  wept  till  I  could  not  weep,  and  the  pain 
Of  my  burning  eyeballs  went  to  my  brain. 
Seven  blackened  corpses  before  me  lie, 
In  the  blaze  of  the  sun  and  the  winds  of  the  sky. 
I  have  watched  them  through  the  burning  day, 
And  driven  the  vulture  and  raven  away ; 
And  the  cormorant  wheeled  in  circles  round, 
Yet  feared  to  alight  on  the  guarded  ground. 
And,  when  the  shadows  of  twilight  came, 
I  have  seen  the  hyena's  eyes  of  flame, 
And  heard  at  my  side  his  stealthy  tread, 
But  aye  at  my  shout  the  savage  fled  ; 
And  I  threw  the  lighted  brand,  to  fright 
The  jackal  and  wolf  that  yelled  in  the  night. 

Ye  were  foully  murdered,  my  hapless  sons, 
By  the  hands  of  wicked  and  cruel  ones ; 
Ye  fell,  in  your  fresh  and  blooming  prime, 
All  innocent,  for  your  father's  crime. 
He  sinned — but  he  paid  the  price  of  his  guilt 
When  his  blood  by  a  nameless  hand  was  spilt ; 


1-23 

When  he  strove  with  the  heathen  host  in  vain, 
And  fell  with  the  flower  of  his  people  slain, 
And  the  sceptre  his  children's  hands  should  sway 
From  his  injured  lineage  passed  away. 

But  I  hoped  that  the  cottage  roof  would  be 
A  safe  retreat  for  my  sons  and  me  ; 
And  that  while  they  ripened  to  manhood  fast, 
They  should  wean  my  thoughts  from  the  woes  of  the  past* 
And  my  bosom  swelled  with  a  mother's  pride, 
As  they  stood  in  their  beauty  and  strength  by  my  side, 
Tall  like  their  sire,  with  the  princely  grace 
Of  his  stately  form,  and  the  bloom  of  his  face. 

Oh,  what  an  hour  for  a  mother's  heart, 
When  the  pitiless  ruffians  tore  us  apart ! 
When  I  clasped  their  knees  and  wept  and  prayed, 
And  struggled  and  shrieked  to  heaven  for  aid, 
And  clung  to  my  sons  with  desperate  strength, 
Till  the  'murderers  loosed  my  hold  at  length, 
And  bore  me  breathless  and  faint  aside, 
In  their  iron  arms,  while  my  children  died. 
They  died — and  the  mother  that  gave  them  birth 
Is  forbid  to  cover  their  bones  with  earth. 

The  barley  harvest  was  nodding  white,     • 
When  my  children  died  on  the  rocky  height, 
And  the  reapers  were  singing  on  hill  and  plain, 
When  I  came  to  my  task  of  sorrow  and  pain. 
But  now  the  season  of  rain  is  nigh, 


124 

The  sun  is  dim  in  the  thickening  sky, 
And  the  clouds  in  sullen  darkness  rest, 
When  he  hides  his  light  at  the  doors  of  the  west. 
I  hear  the  howl  of  the  wind  that  brings 
The  long  drear  storm  on  its  heavy  wings ; 
But  the  howling  wind,  and  the  driving  rain 
Will  beat  on  my  houseless  head  in  vain : 
I  shall  stay,  from  my  murdered  sons  to  scare 
The  beasts  of  the  desert,  and  fowls  of  the  air. 


SONNET. 

Why  have  ye  lingered  on  your  way  so  long, 
Bright  visions,  who  were  wont  to  hear  my  call, 
And  with  the  harmony  of  dance  and  song 
Keep  round  my  dreamy  couch  a  festival  ? 
Where  are  ye  gone  with  all  your  eyes  of  light, 
And  where  the  flowery  voice  I  loved  to  hear, 
When,  through  the  silent  watches  of  the  night, 
Ye  whispered  like  an  angel  in  my  ear  ? — 
O  !  fly  not  with  the  rapid  wing  of  time, 
But  with  your  ancient  votary  kindly  stay, 
And  while  the  loftier  dreams  that  rose  sublime 
In  years  of  higher  hope,  have  flown  away, 
O  !  with  the  colours  of  a  softer  clime, 
Give  your  last  touches  to  the  dying  day. 


125 

THE  PERPETUAL  YOUTH  OF  NATURE". 
A    SOLILOQUY. 

With  what  a  hollow  voice  these  broken  ruins 

Tell  of  the  vanished  past.    Here  they  are  thrown. 

Too  rudely  for  the  most  inquiring  eye 

To  read  one  legend  of  the  men  who  reared  them, 

Or  even  form  a  guess  of  those  who  made 

These  walls  their  home.    It  is  a  beautiful  clime, 

And  all  th  e  year  is  lovely  on  these  shores ; 

For  there  is  neither  winter  here  to  blight, 

Nor  the  hot  sun  to  dry  the  fountains  up, 

And  make  the  plains  a  desert.    Nature  here 

Has  built  her  bower  of  evergreens ;  and  flowers 

Are  never  wanting  for  her  festivals, 

And  these  are  every  day,  and  there  is  in  them 

Such  a  perpetual  variety 

Of  bright  and  fair,  the  heart  is  never  weary 

Of  the  soft  revelry ; — and  yet  no  trace 

Of  human  footsteps  on  the  bordering  sands 

Of  the  calm  ocean,  gives  a  sign  that  man 

Has  found  his  way  before  me  to  this  haunt 

Of  silence  and  repose.    Well,  be  it  so, 

And  I  will  hold  myself  the  rightful  lord 

Of  all  this  fair  domain,  by  the  strong  claim 

Of  first  discovery.     No  inheritance 

Of  gilded  palaces,  or  loaded  fields 

Bent  with  a  thousand  harvests,  could  so  fill 

My  spirit  with  the  stirring  health  of  joy, 
L2 


126 

As  thus  to  hold  myself  the  sole  possessor 

Of  such  a  solitude — so  full  of  life, 

And  yet  so  mute, — so  bright  and  beautiful, 

And  yet  so  darkly  shadowed  with  the  pall 

Of  buried  ages.    How  the  merry  vines 

Go  gadding  in  the  brisk  and  spirited  air, 

That  even  calls  from  out  the  barren  rocks 

A  welcoming  smile.     The  wind  is  very  low — 

It  hardly  wags  the  shrinking  violet, 

Or  sends  a  quiver  to  the  aspen  leaf, 

Or  curls  the  green  wave  on  the  pebbled  shore, 

Or  gives  a  wrinkle  to  the  quiet  sea, 

That  like  a  giant  resting  from  his  toil, 

Sleeps  in  the  morning  sun.    That  flowery  palm 

Has  a  most  glorious  aspect  as  he  bows 

In  silent  worship  to  his  rising  god ; 

And  from  his  station  on  the  tallest  pile 

Of  these  mysterious  ruins,  once  the  shrine, 

It  may  be,  of  the  living  Sun  himself, 

How  like  a  most  majestic  sovereign 

He  keeps  his  lofty  seat,  and  yet  adores 

The  Lord  that  made  him.    It  is  wonderful, 

That  man  should  hold  himself  so  haughtily, 

And  talk  of  an  immortal  name,  and  feed 

His  proud  ambition  with  such  daring  hopes, 

As  creatures  of  a  more  eternal  nature 

Alone  should  form.    Why,  't  is  a  mockery 

Too  poor  for  tears,  and  yet  too  sad  for  smiles, 

To  think  how  much  of  glitter  and  of  pride 

Has  flaunted  in  the  Sun,  and  sent  him  back 


i87 

His  fullest  beams.    These  rude  disjointed  heaps, 
That  seem  the  chaos  of  a  broken  world, 
And  hardly  give  us  signs  enough  to  show, 
They  were  not  thrown  from  out  the  central  earth 
By  an  upheaving  earthquake — these  were  bright 
With  such  barbaric  pomp,  as  made  the  Sun 
Muffle  his  head,  and  hide  himself  at  noon 
To  shun  the  poor  encounter.    So  they  sung, 
The  sycophants,  who  told  the  gorgeous  tyrant 
Of  these  once  peopled  shores,  he  was  a  god, 
And  with  the  port  and  bearing  of  a  god 
Sat  on  his  throne,  or  in  his  chariot 
Went  sounding  on  his  long  triumphal  way. 
Fools !  and  where  are  they  ?    Not  a  mark  to  tell 
The  shadows  of  their  names — The  tooth  of  Time 
Has  ground  the  marble  sculptures  to  rude  forms 
Such  as  the  falling  waters  eat  from  rocks 
In  the  deep  gloom  of  caves  ! — and  yet,  as  if 
They  meant  to  show  their  scorn  of  him,  who  calls 
Himself  their  lord,  the  beasts  and  creeping  things 
Have  come  from  out  their  deserts  and  their  holes, 
And  made  their  dens  in  the  crushed  palaces, 
And  round  the  buried  altars  hollowed  out 
Their  lurking-places.    O  !  how  fresh  and  fair 
Grows  the  young  grass,  and  how  the  wild  vines  clasp 
The  rifted  columns,  with  as  bright  a  foliage, 
As  when  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  earth 
First  rose  the  rampant  Spring,  and  the  glad  Sun 
Laughed  from  his  azure  throne  to  see  the  buds 
Put  out  their  tender  leaves,  and  the  soft  green 
Spread  like  a  carpet  to  the  tented  sky. 


128 

MOUNT  WASHINGTON. 

The  loftiest  peak  of  the  White  Mountains,  N.  H. 

Mount  of  the  clouds  ;  on  whose  Olympian  height 
The  tall  rocks  brighten  in  the  ether  air, 
And  spirits  from  the  skies  come  down  at  night, 
To  chant  immortal  songs  to  Freedom  there ! 
Thine  is  the  rock  of  other  regions  ;  where 
The  world  of  life  which  blooms  so  far  below 
Sweeps  a  wide  waste :  no  gladdening  scenes  appear, 
Save  where  with  silvery  flash  the  waters  flow 
Beneath  the  far  off  mountain,  distant,  calm,  and  slow. 

Thine  is  the  summit  where  the  clouds  repose, 
Or  eddying  wildly  round  thy  cliffs  are  borne  ; 
When  Tempest  mounts  his  rushing  car,  and  throws 
His  billowy  mist  amid  the  thunder's  home  ! 
Far  down  the  deep  ravines  the  whirlwinds  come, 
And  bow  the  forests  as  they  sweep  along ; 
While  roaring  deeply  from  their  rocky  womb 
The  storms  came  forth — and  hurrying  darkly  on, 
Amid  the  echoing  peaks  the  revelry  prolong ! 

And  when  the  tumult  of  the  air  is  fled, 
And  quenched  in  silence  all  the  tempest  flame, 
There  come  the  dim  forms  of  the  mighty  dead, 
Around  the  steep  which  bears  the  hero's  name. 
The  stars  look  down  upon  them — and  the  same 
Pale  orb  that  glistens  o'er  his  distant  grave, 
Gleams  on  the  summit  that  enshrines  his  fame, 


129 

And  lights  the  cold  tear  of  the  glorious  brave — 
The  richest,  purest  tear,  that  memory  ever  gave ! 

Mount  of  the  clouds !  when  winter  round  thee  throws 
The  hoary  mantle  of  the  dying  year, 
Sublime  amid  thy  canopy  of  snows, 
Thy  towers  in  bright  magnificence  appear ! 
'T  is  then  we  view  thee  with  a  chilling  fear, 
Till  summer  robes  thee  in  her  tints  of  blue  ; 
When  lo !  in  softened  grandeur,  far,  yet  clear, 
Thy  battlements  stand  clothed  in  Heaven's  own  hue, 
To  swell  as  Freedom's  home  on  man's  unbounded  view! 


SUNRTSE  FROM  MOUNT   WASHINGTON. 

The  laughing  hours  have  chased  away  the  Night 
Plucking  the  stars  out  from  her  diadem ; 
And  now  the  blue-eyed  morn  with  modest  grace, 
Looks  through  her  half-drawn  curtains  in  the  East 
Blushing  in  smiles — and  glad  as  infancy. 
And  see !  the  foolish  Moon,  but  now  so  vain 
Of  borrowed  beauty,  how  she  yields  her  charms, 
And,  pale  with  envy,  steals  herself  away  ! 
The  clouds  have  put  their  gorgeous  livery  on 
Attendant  on  the  day.    The  mountain  tops 
Have  lit  their  beacons, — and  the  vales  below 
Send  up  a  welcoming.    No  song  of  birds, 


130 

Warbling  to  charm  the  air  with  melody, 
Floats  on  the  frosty  breeze ;  yet  Nature  hath 
The  very  soul  of  music  in  her  looks, — 
The  sunshine  and  the  shade  of  poetry  ! 

I  stand  upon  thy  loftiest  pinnacle, 

Temple  of  Nature !  and  look  down  with  awe 

On  the  wide  world  beneath  me,  dimly  seen. 

Around  me  crowd  the  giant  sons  of  earth, 

Fixed  on  their  old  foundations,  unsubdued, — 

Firm  as  when  first  rebellion  bade  them  rise, 

Unrifted  to  the  Thunderer ; — now  they  seem 

A  family  of  mountains,  clustering  round 

Their  hoary  patriarch, — emulously  watching 

To  meet  the  partial  glances  of  the  day. 

Far  in  the  glowing  East,  the  flecking  light, 

Mellowed  by  distance, — with  the  blue  sky  blending,- 

Questions  the  eye  with  ever-varying  forms. 

The  sun  is  up  ; — away  the  shadows  fling 

From  the  broad  hills,  and  hurrying  to  the  west, 

Sport  in  the  sunshine,  till  they  die  away. 

The  many  beauteous  mountain-streams  leap  down, 

Out- welling  from  the  clouds, — and  sparkling  light 

Dances  along  with  their  perennial  flow. 

And  there  is  beauty  in  yon  river's  path — 

The  glad  Connecticut.    I  know  her  well 

By  the  white  veil  she  mantles  o'er  her  charms. 

At  times,  she  loiters  by  a  ridge  of  hills, 

Sportfully  hiding ;  then  again  with  glee 

Out-rushes  from  her  wild- wood  lurking-place. 


131 

Far  as  the  eye  can  bound,  the  ocean-waves 
And  lakes  and  rivers,  mountains,  vales  and  woods, 
And  all  that  holds  the  Faculty  entranced, 
Bathed  in  a  flood  of  glory,  float  in  air, 
And  sleep  in  the  deep  quietude  of  joy ! 
There  is  a  fearful  stillness  in  this  place — 
A  presence  that  forbids  to  break  the  spell, 
Till  the  heart  pours  its  agony  in  tears. 
But  I  must  drink  the  vision  while  it  lasts  ; 
For  even  now  the  curling  vapours  rise, 
Wreathing  their  cloudy  coronals  to  grace 
These  towering  summits — bidding  me  away. 
But  often  shall  my  heart  turn  back  again, 
Thou  glorious  eminence  ! — and  when  oppressed 
And  aching  with  the  coldness  of  the  world, 
Find  a  sweet  resting-place  and  home  with  thee 


SONNET. 

O !  thou  sole-sitting  Spirit  of  Loneliness, 
Whose  haunt  is  by  the  wild  and  dropping  caves; 
Thou,  of  the  musing  eye  and  scattered  tress, 
I  meet  thee  with  a  passionate  joy,  no  less 
Than  when  the  mariner,  from  off  his  waves, 
Catches  the  glimpses  of  a  far  blue  shore — 
He  thinks  the  danger  of  his  voyage  o'er, 
And  pressing  all  his  canvass,  steers  to  land, 


132 

With  a  glad  bosom  and  a  ready  hand. 
So  I  would  hie  me  to  thy  desolate  shade, 
And  seat  myself  in  some  deep-sheltered  nook, 
And  never  breathe  a  wish  again  to  look 
On  the  tossed  world,  but  rather  listless  laid 
Pore  on  the  bubbles  of  the  passing  brook. 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  THE  GREEK  PATRIOT. 

One  last,  best  effort  now — 

They  shall  not  call  us  slaves — 
These  iron  necks  shall  never  bow 
To  barter  for  a  hated  life, 
But  we  will  tell  in  mortal  strife, 

What  wrath  a  freeman  braves — 
A  few  short  years,  and  we  have  known 
The  pride  and  joy — to  live  alone. 

Our  ancient  land  was  free, — 

We  washed  its  stains  in  blood—" 
Again  the  hymn  of  Liberty 
Rose  from  the  high  Athenian  shrine, 
And  virgin  hands  did  often  twine, 

In  the  dark  olive  wood, 
Their  garlands  for  the  youthful  brow, 
Who  taught  the  heathen  Turk 


133 

These  have  been  glorious  days- 
Let  come  what  will,  our  fame 
Is  like  the  sun's  eternal  blaze, 
And  when  they  tell  of  Marathon, 
And  all  the  fields  our  fathers  won, 

They  too  shall  name 
Botzaris,  and  the  few  who  died, 
Victims  of  glory,  by  his  side. 

The  world  has  told  our  doom — 

'T  is  Liberty  or  Death — 
The  tree  we  planted  must  not  bloom, 
For  Turk  and  Christian — all  unite, 
And  royal  hands  our  sentence  write, 

And  yet  our  breath, 
When  trampled  by  the  ruffian  herd, 
Shall  never  breathe  one  recreant  word. 

If  we  must  die — then  die — 

And  let  the  foul  disgrace 
Cling  to  their  names  eternally, 
Who,  when  they  had  the  power  to  save, 
Doomed  to  a  dark  and  bloody  grave 

A  high,  devoted  race — 
Awhile  the  sweets  of  life  to  know, 
O  God !  and  then  to  perish  so ! 

But  Freedom  has  one  shore — 
Would  we  could  shelter  there 

The  tender  ones,  we  value  more 
M 


134 

Than  life  or  fame — O !  generous  men, 
Be  with  us,  as  ye  long  have  been, 

And  we  will  share 

All  the  poor  fruit  of  toils  and  pains, — 
Our  hearts — our  lives — perhaps,  our  chains. 

Come,  at  this  fatal  hour, 

Ye  last  of  high-born  souls  ; 
Come — when  the  crushing  weight  of  power 
Has  all  but  bent  our  necks  to  earth — 
We  will  not  shame  our  glorious  birth  ; 

Nor  Turk,  nor  Hun  controls 
The  heart  that  holds  the  Spartan  fire, 
The  sacred  relic  of  his  sire. 

We  know,  ye  cannot  fear — 

We  know,  that  ye  are  brave — 
To  us — your  very  name  is  dear — 
O !  by  that  name,  and  all  its  light, 
We  bid  ye  join  the  murderous  fight, 

To  win  and  save — 
O  !  come — if  it  be  only  time 
To  fall  with  us — in  Death  sublime. 


GRECIAN  LIBERTY. 

Glorious  Vision !  who  art  thou, 
With  thy  starry  crown  of  light, 


135 

Like  the  diadem  of  night 
On  the  ^Ethiop  monarch's  brow  ? — 
And  why  art  thou  descending 
From  thy  bright  Olympian  throne, 
And  thy  lavish  glory  lending, 
Like  the  ever-rolling  sun, 
To  the  self-devoted  band 
On  the  threshold  of  their  land  ? 
Few,  but  hardy  are  their  ranks, 
And  they  never  will  retire, 
Though  ten  thousand  on  their  flanks 
Hurl  a  storm  of  steel  and  fire — 
Though  an  iron  tempest  rain 
Death  and  darkness,  till  the  day 
Pass  in  dim  eclipse  away — 
Though  the  thunderbolts  of  war, 
Plough  their  furrows  in  the  plain, 
And  the  echoing  mountains  bay 
To  the  tumult  from  afar. 

O !  bright  and  glorious  creature 

Winged,  and  mailed,  arid  armed  for  fight ; 

Though  beautiful  in  feature, 

Like  a  Spirit  of  delight ; 

Yet  the  arching  of  thy  brow, 

And  thy  proud  and  gallant  form, 

Tell  of  one  who  rides  the  storm, 

When  the  sternest  warriors  bow, 

And  the  bravest  yield  their  breath 

At  the  summoning  of  Death. 


136 

There  thou  standest  on  the  mountains, 
And  the  sparkle  of  thy  spear, 
Like  a  sunbeam  on  the  fountains, 
To  the  gallant  few  below, 
Is  a  sign  of  wrath  and  fear 
To  the  blind  and  brutal  foe  ; — 
Like  a  beacon  let  it  blaze 
Broad  and  flaring  till  it  daze 
All  who  come  with  foot  profane 
To  this  consecrated  plain, 
Where  thy  pure  and  perfect  shrine 
Youths  and  maidens  loved  to  twine 
With  the  laurel  and  the  myrtle — 
And  the  shadow  of  thy  grove, 
Haunt  of  innocence  and  love, 
Heard  the  winged  arrows  hurtle 
From  the  flowery-wreathen  bow, 
With  a  whisper  like  the  flow 
Of  a  brook,  that  winds  afar 
Underneath  the  Evening  Star. 

O !  they  were  happy  days, 
When,  reposing  in  the  shade, 
Elms,  and  vines,  and  poplars  made, 
It  was  all  thy  joy  to  gaze 
On  the  races  and  the  dances, 
Twining  hands  and  burning  glances, 
Where  Passion  went  and  came, 
Like  an  arrow  tipped  with  flame. 
Though  thou  didst  often  lie 


137 

With  a  pleased  and  placid  eye, 

As  thy  children  took  their  pleasure, 

And  the  merry  flute  and  viol 

Told,  in  light  and  airy  measure, 

All  the  joys  and  sports  of  leisure  ; 

Not  the  less,  to  meet  the  trial, 

Thou  would'st  gird  thy  warlike  arms, 

And  with  bare  and  eager  blade, 

On,  though  dangers  and  alarms, 

To  the  wreath  of  Victory  wade. 

Thou  could'st  leave  thy  pleasant  woods, 

And  the  harvest  of  the  plain, 

And  along  the  torrent  floods 

To  the  frozen  mountains  climb, 

Where  they  reared  their  fronts  sublime ; 

Or  scorning  Slavery's  chain, 

Make  thy  dwelling  on  the  main. 

From  the  Dorian  rocks  and  caves, 

When  the  gorged  and  glutted  foe 

Lay  in  careless  ease  below, 

Like  an  Alpine  stream  that  raves 

When  the  autumn  rains  are  pouring, 

And  the  pines  in  mist  are  towering  ; 

So  thou  did'st  rush  and  sweep 

To  the  dark  remorseless  deep, 

With  thy  fury  and  thy  force, 

Shield  and  chariot,  man  and  horse, 

And  thy  sword  wrought  far  and  wide, 

Till  the  land  was  purified. 
M2 


138 

And  now  thou  dost  awake, 

And  thy  dream  of  ages  break — 

From  the  halls  of  ice  and  snow, 

Whence  thy  classic  rivers  flow ; 

From  thy  palace  in  the  clouds, 

Where  the  light  of  evening  runs 

On  the  rolling  wreath  that  shrouds 

The  last  refuge  of  thy  sons — 

Peaks,  that  never  Turk  has  trod, 

Where  the  armed  and  ardent  Klepht 

Found  his  shelter,  when  he  left, 

For  a  prey  to  wasting  fires, 

All  the  temples  of  his  God, 

And  the  dwellings  of  his  sires ; — 

From  thy  caverns  in  the  rock, 

From  thy  dark  and  hidden  hold, 

Thou  hast  nerved  thee  to  the  shock, 

And  thy  warning  shout  has  rolled — 

Height  from  height  has  caught  the  sound 

And  thy  foes  in  haste  retire  ; 

Now  the  tumult  rises  higher — 

'Tis  a  nation's  cry  of  joy — 

"  None  to  ravage  and  destroy — 

Not  a  foreign  foot  is  found 

On  our  consecrated  ground." 


139 

TIME  AND  BEAUTY. 

Ruthless  Time,  who  waits  for  no  man, 
But  with  scythe,  and  wings,  and  glass, 

Lies  in  wait  for  youth  and  woman, 
Saw  one  morning  Beauty  pass. 

O'er  the  flowers  she  bounded  lightly, 

Smiling  as  a  summer's  day  ; 
Time,  who  marked  her  eyes  beam  brightly, 

Chose  the  fair  one  for  his  prey. 

"  Maid,"  he  rudely  cried,  "  good  morrow  ! 

Knowest  thou  not  what  rights  are  mine  ? 
Beauty  'tis  my  wont  to  borrow ; 

And  I  come  to  gather  thine." 

"I'll  not  yield  it,"  cried  she  boldly ; 

"  Monster,  do  not  draw  so  nigh." 
"  Come  with  me,"  he  answered  coldly. 

"  Go  with  thee  !"  said  she  "  not  I." 

Time  his  scythe  extended  o'er  her, 
Threatening  with  his  withered  hand ; 

And  his  hour-glass  shook  before  her, 
Pointing  to  the  running  sand. 

But  the  maiden  all  intrepid, 
Answered,  laughing  carelessly, 

"  I  am  young,  and  thou  decrepid, 
What  hast  thou  to  do  with  me." 


140 

Time  replied,  with  purpose  steady, 
"  Wrinkles  I  must  lend  thy  brow." 

Beauty  cried,  "  I  'm  not  yet  ready,?* 
Flying-,  cried,  "  not  ready  now." 

Time  pursued,  with  will  unshaken  ; 

Beauty  fled  with  rapid  feet, 
Yet  was  soon  well  nigh  o'ertaken, 

For  the  old  man's  wings  are  fleet. 

But  the  maiden,  nothing  fearful, 
Calls  on  Wisdom,  power  divine ; 

Wisdom  comes,  with  aspect  cheerful, 
Leads  her  to  her  ancient  shrine* 

There  her  eye  all  passion  loses, 
But  with  reason  shines  serene  ; 

Truth  its  sober  charms  diffuses 
Gently  o'er  her  softened  mien. 

Thought  restrains  her  youthful  wildness ; 

Calmness  holy  hopes  bestow ; 
On  her  face  love  joined  to  mildness 

Blends  its  light  with  virtue's  glow. 

Time  saw  heavenly  graces  cluster, 
Left,  o'erawed,  his  will  undone  ; 

Beauty  smiled  in  angel  lustre  ; 
Time  was  vanquished  ;  Beauty  won, 


141 

A  VISION. 

I  have  been  haunted  by  an  awful  dream — 

A  vision  of  my  childhood — one  that  grew 

From  an  o'erheated  fancy,  nursed  to  fear 

In  a  dark,  visionary  creed.     A  Star, 

Of  a  malign  aspe'ct,  had  been  to  me, 

For  a  few  weeks  of  dread  uncertainty, 

The  prophet  of  evil ;  and  I  saw  in  it 

The  minister  of  judgments,  such  as  oft 

Had  been  denounced  before  me,  and  had  grown 

To  an  undoubting  faith. 

Methought  that  Star, 
As  in  a  vision  of  the  night  I  lay, 
Stood  with  its  train  directed  to  the  Earth, 
And  every  moment  it  did  spread  itself, 
And  grew  a  deeper  crimson.     Where  I  was 
I  could  not  tell ;  but  I  stood  gazing  on  it 
With  unaverted  eye,  and  I  could  watch  it 
Taking  ten  thousand  fiery  shapes,  and  changing 
To  every  terrible  hue  and  form,  and  still 
Widening  and  widening  out  its  burning  orb, 
Till  a  whole  quarter  of  the  heavens  was  red 
And  glowing  like  a  furnace.     Then,  methought, 
A  form  stood  visible'within  it,  vast 
And  indistinct,  as  a  far  mountain,  seen 
Through  a  dense  vapour,  when  the  morning  strikes  it, 
And  makes  it  such  a  thing  as  the  mind  frames, 
-When  it  goes  wandering  through  the  infinite, 


142 

And  builds  on  dreams.    I  gazed  upon  it,  chained 
And  fascinated  by  its  terrible  glory, 
And  with  it  such  a  sense  of  fear, — the  drops 
Stood  thick  upon  my  forehead,  and  my  heart 
Was  near  to  bursting.     'T  was  an  agony 
Of  wonder  and  of  death  ;  for  I  beheld 
Already  come  the  day  of  doom,  and  Earth 
Seemed  parched  and  burnt  by  the  intensity 
Of  that  approaching  flame.     The  sky  above 
Was  like  a  vaulted  furnace,  and  it  quivered 
And  sparkled  in  the  heat,  and  at  the  centre, 
Transparent  in  the  fierceness  of  its  fire, 
Still  that  illimitable  form  did  frown 
Blacker  than  tenfold  night.    His  quick  approach 
Left  me  no  time  to  scan  him,  but  he  seemed 
To  gather  in  himself  all  I  had  heard 
Or  dreamed  of  horrible.     A  muttering  sountf, 
Like  that  of  far-off  winds,  or  smothered  flame 
Roaring  in  caves, — a  sound  that  fell  like  fate 
On  my  stunned  ear,  came  as  a  warning  voice, 
That  Earth  was  now  within  the  wasting  sphere 
Of  that  consuming  plague.     At  once  the  wind 
Seemed  to  blow  over  me,  with  hot,  thick  breath, 
Wafting  such  clouds  of  smoke  and  sheets  of  fire, 
That  all  around  me  seemed  one  conflagration ; 
And  even  the  firm  foundations  of  the  hills 
Cracked  and  fell  inward,  and  one  long,  long  peal 
Gave  warning,  that  this  ponderous  globe  was  rent 
And  shivered.     Suddenly  a  burst  of  flame 
So  clear  and  strong,  no  thought  can  image  it, 


143 

Filled  the  whole  visible  space  ;  and  still  it  flashed, 

And  flashed,  till  in  an  instant  utter  darkness 

Closed  heavily,  around  me,  and  I  woke  : — 

I  woke,  and  yet  the  horrors  of  that  dream 

Would  visit  me  at  times,  even  when  I  grew 

To  know  its  causes,  and  could  reason  of  it ; 

And  though  the  mind  moved  in  its  own  pure  light, 

And  stood  aloof  from  fear,  yet  there  were  moments, 

When  the  dark  memory  of  this  dream  would  quell  me 

Well  nigh  to  trembling. 


ITALY—A  CONFERENCE. 

A.  Why  hast  thou  such  a  downward  look  of  care, 
As  if  thine  eye  refused  the  sweet  communion 
Of  these  enchanted  skies  ?    I  cannot  weary 
In  gazing  on  them,  there  is  such  a  clearness 
In  the  mid-noon ;  and  then  the  calmer  hours 
Have  such  a  glory  round  them,  that  I  grow 
Enamoured  of  their  clouds.     O !  they  have  caught 
Their  hues  in  Heaven,  and  they  come  stealing  to  us 
Like  messengers  of  love  to  kindle  up 
This  volatile  air.    How  light  and  thin  it  floats — 
Methinks  I  now  can  pass  into  the  depths 
Of  yon  wide  firmament,  it  lies  so  open 
And  shows  so  fair.    The  stars  are  hung  below  it, 
And  they  are  moving  in  a  vacancy, 
Like  the  poised  eagle.    How  the  studded  moon, 


144 

All  dropped  with  glittering-  points,  rolls  on  its  way 
Between  the  pillowy  clouds,  and  that  which  seems 
A  crystalline  arch — a  dome  that  rests  on  air, 
Buoyed  by  its  lightness.     Can  thy  heavy  eyes 
Still  pore  on  the  discoloured  earth,  and  choose 
Their  home  in  darkness  ?    Something  weighs  upon 

thee 

With  no  light  burden,  if  thou  hast  no  heart 
To  mingle  with  the  beautiful  world  around  thee. 

B.  Thou  talk'st  of  clouds  and  skies.   Has  the  sweet  face 
Of  spring  a  power  to  charm  away  the  fiends 
That  riot  on  the  soul  ?    Will  the  foul  spirit 
Go,  when  the  cock  crows,  like  a  muttering  ghost, 
To  find  his  kindred  shades,and  leave  the  heart 
To  gladden  through  the  day,  and  dares  he  not 
To  fill  it  with  his  terrors,  when  the  Sun 
Is  out  in  heaven  ?    Is  there  a  sovereign  balm 
In  cloudless  skies,  and  bright  and  glowing  noons, 
To  make  the  spirit  light,  and  drive  from  it 
The  moody  madness  and  the  listless  sorrow  ? 
I  feel  there  is  not.     Something  tells  me,  here, 
There  may  be  such  a  grief,  that  nothing  earthly 
Hath  power  to  stay  it.    I  too  have  a  feeling, 
How  beautiful  this  clime  ;  and  though  the  native 
Looks  on  it  with  a  blank  indifference, 
To  us  who  had  our  birth  in  clouded  skies, 
And  reckoned  it  a  bright  and  fortunate  day, 
If  the  sun  gave  us  but  an  hour  at  noon, 
It  is  indeed  a  luxury  to  see 


145 

Whole  days  without  a  cloud,  but  these  light  shapes, 
That  float  around  us  more  like  heavenly  spirits, 
They  are  so  bright  and  wear  such  glorious  hues, 
Or  hang  so  quietly,  and  look  so  pure, 
When  all  is  still  at  noon.    O !  I  have  felt 
This  luxury  of  sense,  but  yet  it  comes  not 
So  far  as  here.    The  heart  knows  nothing  of  it ; 
And  now  that  I  have  seen  so  many  days, 
All  of  an  equal  brightness,  like  the  calm 
That  reigns,  they  say,  perpetually  in  Heaven, 
Why — I  grow  weary  of  them,  and  my  thoughts 
Are  on  the  past.    Thou  need'st  no  other  answer. 

A.  'T  is  not  the  barren  luxury  of  sense, 
That  makes  me  love  these  skies — but  there  is  in 

them 

A  living  spirit.    I  can  feel  it  stealing 
Even  to  my  heart  of  hearts,  and  waking  there 
Feelings  that  never  yet  have  stirred  within  me, 
So  blessed,  that  I  almost  weep  to  think 
How  poor  my  life  without  them.    I  now  walk 
In  a  glad  company  of  happy  visions, 
And  all  the  air  seems  like  a  dwelling-place 
For  glorious  creatures.    Like  the  shifting  waves, 
That  toss  on  the  white  shore,  when  evening  breezes 
Steal  to  the  land  in  summer,  they  are  floating 
In  airy  trains  around  me.    Now  they  come 
Laughing  on  yonder  mountain  side,  a  troop 
Of  airy  nymphs,  and  now  they  flit  away 

Round  the  far  islands  of  the  golden  sea, — 

N 


146 

Islands  of  light  that  seem  to  hang  in  air, 
Midway  in  heaven.     No  wonder  they  so  love 
The  song  and  dance,  and  walk  with  such  a  look 
Of  thoughtless  gaiety — the  merry  beggars, 
Who  breed  like  insects  on  these  sunny  shores, 
And  live  as  idly.     There  are  glorious  faces 
Among  them — there  are  Roman  spirits  here, 
And  Grecian  eyes  that  tell  a  thousand  fancies, 
Like  those  that  shaped  their  deities,  and  wrought 
Perfection.    True,  they  have  no  stirring  hopes 
To  lift  them ;  yet  at  times  they  will  give  vent 
To  the  overburdened  soul,  and  then  they  speak 
In  oracles,  or  like  the  harp  of  Memnon, 
They  utter  poetry,  as  the  bright  skies 
And  stirring  winds  awake  it.    Who  can  wonder, 
That  every  voice  is  bursting  out  in  music, 
And  every  peasant  tunes  his  mandoline 
To  the  delicious  airs,  that  creep  so  softly 
Into  the  slumbering  ear.     O  !  't  is  a  land, 
Where  life  is  doubled,  and  a  brighter  world 
Rolls  over  this,  and  there  the  spirit  lives 
In  a  gay  paradise,  and  here  we  breathe 
An  atmosphere  of  roses. 

B  Yes— But  this 

Is  nothing  to  the  heart.    They  never  felt 
These  summer  flies,  who  buzz  so  gaily  round  us, 
They  never  felt,  one  moment,  what  we  feel 
With  such  a  silent  tenderness,  and  keep 
So  closely  round  our  hearts.    We  do  not  wake 


147 

The  echoes  with  our  loud  and  thoughtless  carols, 

Nor  sit  whole  days  beneath  a  bowering  vine, 

Singing  its  amber  juice,  and  telling  too 

Of  starry  eyes,  and  soft  and  languishing  looks, 

And  talking  of  our  agonies  with  smiles, 

Making  a  sport  of  soirow.     No,  our  year, 

With  its  long  time  of  gloom,  and  hurried  days 

Of  warmth,  that  call  for  more  of  toil  than  pleasure 

Our  pensive  year  forbids  the  wandering  spirit 

To  make  itself  a  song-bird.    We  must  keep 

Our  sorrows  and  our  hopes  close  cherished  by  us, 

Till  the  heart  softens,  and  by  often  musing 

Takes  a  deep,  serious  tone,  and  has  a  feeling 

For  all  that  suffer.    So  we  often  bear 

A  grief,  that  is  the  burden  of  a  life, 

And  will  not  leave  us.     Something  that  would  seem 

Too  trifling  to  be  laughed  at  here,  will  weigh 

And  weigh  upon  us,  till  we  cannot  lift  it, 

And  then  we  pine  and  die.     Her  heart  is  broken, 

And  the  worm  feeds  upon  her  early  roses, 

And  now  her  lily  fades,  and  all  its  brightness 

Turns  to  a  green  and  sallow  melancholy, 

And  then  we  strew  her  grave ; — but  here  the  passion 

Breaks  out  in  wildness,  then  is  sung  away 

With  a  complaining  air,  and  so  is  ended. 

I  have  no  sympathy  with  such  light  spirits, 

But  I  can  see  my  sober  countrymen 

Gather  around  their  winter's  hearth,  and  read 

Of  no  unreal  suffering,  and  then  weep 

Big  tears  that  ease  the  heart,  and  need  no  words 


148 

To  make  their  meaning  known.     One  silent  hour 
Of  deep  and  thoughtful  feeling  stands  me  more, 
Than  a  whole  age  of  such  a  heartless  mirth, 
As  a  bright  summer  wakens. 


ITALIAN   SCENERY. 

Night  rests  in  beauty  on  Mont  Alto. 

Beneath  its  shade  the  beauteous  Arno  sleeps 
In  Vallombrosa's  bosom,  and  dark  trees 
Bend  with  a  calm  and  quiet  shadow  down 
Upon  the  beauty  of  that  silent  river. 
Still  in  the  west,  a  melancholy  smile 
Mantles  the  lips  of  day,  and  twilight  pale 
Moves  like  a  spectre  in  the  dusky  sky  ; 
While  eve's  sweet  star  on  the  fast-fading  year 
Smiles  calmly : — Music  steals  at  intervals 
Across  the  water,  with  a  tremulous  swell, 
From  out  the  upland  dingle  of  tall  firs, 
And  a  faint  foot-fall  sounds,  where  dim  and  dark 
Hangs  the  gray  willow  from  the  river's  brink, 
O'er-shadowing  its  current.     Slowly  there 
The  lover's  gondola  drops  down  the  stream, 
Silent, — save  when  its  dipping  oar  is  heard, 
Or  in  its  eddy  sighs  the  rippling  wave. 
Mouldering  and  moss-grown,  through  the  lapse  of 
years, 


149 

In  motionless  beauty  stands  the  giant  oak, 

Whilst  those,  that  saw  its  green  and  flourishing  youth, 

Are  gone  and  are  forgotten.     Soft  the  fount, 

Whose  secret  springs  the  star-light  pale  discloses, 

Gushes  in  hollow  music,  and  beyond 

The  broader  river  sweeps  its  silent  way, 

Mingling  a  silver  current  with  that  sea, 

Whose  waters  have  no  tides,  coming  nor  going. 

On  noiseless  wing  along  that  fair  blue  sea 

The  halcyon  flits, — and  where  the  wearied  storm 

Left  a  loud  moaning,  all  is  peace  again. 

A  calm  is  on  the  deep  !     The  winds  that  came 
O'er  the  dark  sea-surge  with  a  tremulous  breathing, 
And  mourned  on  the  dark  cliff  where  weeds  grew  rank, 
And  to  the  Autumnal  death-dirge  the  deep  sea 
Heaved  its  long  billows, — with  a  cheerless  song, 
Have  passed  away  to  the  cold  earth  again, 
Like  a  way-faring  mourner.     Silently 
Up  from  the  calm  sea's  dim  and  distant  verge, 
Full  and  unveiled  the  moon's  broad  disk  emerges. 
On  Tivoli,  and  where  the  fairy  hues 
Of  autumn  glow  upon  Abruzzi's  woods, 
The  silver  light  is  spreading.     Far  above, 
Encompassed  with  their  thin,  cold  atmosphere, 
The  Apennines  uplift  their  snowy  brows, 
Glowing  with  colder  beauty,  where  unheard 
The  eagle  screams  in  the  fathomless  ether, 

And  stays  his  wearied  wing.    Here  let  us  pause  ! — 
Nfc 


150 

The  spirit  of  these  solitudes — the  soiil 

That  dwells  within  these  steep  and  difficult  places — 

Speaks  a  mysterious  language  to  mine  own, 

And  brings  unutterable  musings.     Earth 

Sleeps  in  the  shades  of  nightfall,  and  the  sea 

Spreads  like  a  thin  blue  haze  beneath  my  feet, 

Whilst  the  gray  columns  and  the  mouldering  tombs 

Of  the  Imperial  City,  hidden  deep 

Beneath  the  mantle  of  their  shadows,  rest. 

My  spirit  looks  on  earth  ! — A  heavenly  voice 

Comes  silently — "  Dreamer,  is  earth  thy  dwelling  ?— 

Lo !  nursed  within  that  fair  and  fruitful  bosom 

Which  has  sustained  thy  being,  and  within 

The  colder  breast  of  Ocean,  lie  the  germs 

Of  thine  own  dissolution  ! — E'en  the  air, 

That  fans  the  clear  blue  sky  and  gives  thee  strength, — 

Up  from  the  sullen  lake  of  mouldering  reeds, 

And  the  wide  waste  of  forest,  where  the  osier 

Thrives  in  the  damp  and  motionless  atmosphere, — 

Shall  bring  the  dire  and  wasting  pestilence 

And  blight  thy  cheek.    Dream  thou  of  higher  things ; — 

This  world  is  not  thy  home !" — And  yet  my  eye 

Rests  upon  earth  again !    How  beautiful, 

Where  wild  Velino  heaves  its  sullen  waves 

Down  the  high  cliff  of  gray  and  shapeless  granite, — 

Hung  on  the  curling  mist,  the  moonlight  bow 

Arches  the  perilous  river. — A  soft  light 

Silvers  the  Albanian  mountains,  and  the  haze 

That  rests  upon  their  summits,  mellows  down 

The  austerer  features  of  their  beauty.    Faint 


151 

And  dim-discovered  glow  the  Sabine  hills, 
And  listening  to  the  sea's  monotonous  shell, 
High  on  the  cliffs  of  Terracina  stands 
The  castle  of  the  royal  Goth  in  ruins. 

But  night  is  in  her  wane : — day's  early  flush 
Glows  like  a  hectic  on  her  fading  cheek, 
Wasting  its  beauty.    And  the  opening  dawn 
With  cheerful  lustre  lights  the  royal  city, 
Where  with  its  proud  tiara  of  dark  towers, 
It  sleeps  upon  its  own  romantic  bay. 


THE  FAIR  ITALIAN. 

She  looked  how  lovely. — Not  the  face  heaven 

In  its  serenest  calm,  nor  earth  in  all 

Its  garniture  of  flowers,  nor  all  that  live 

In  the  bright  world  of  dreams,  nor  all  the  eye 

Of  a  creative  spirit  meets  in  air, 

Could  in  the  smile  and  sunshine  of  her  charms,. 

Not  feel  itself  o'ermastered  by  such  rare 

And  perfect  beauty.    Grace  was  over  all ; — 

Her  form,  her  face,  her  attitudes,  her  motions, 

Each  had  peculiar  charms. — Like  gliding  swans. 

Sailing  upon  the  bosom  of  a  lake, 

Before  the  breeze  of  evening,  when  the  waves 


152 

Curl  rippling  round  their  bosoms,  so  she  moved 

Through  all  the  mazy  dance.     She  bore  herself 

So  gently,  that  the  lily  on  its  stalk 

Bends  not  so  easily  its  dewy  head, 

As  with  a  gliding  step  she  wound  her  way 

To  the  soft  echoes  of  the  light  guitar, 

The  dreamy  music  of  her  sunny  clime, 

Where  all  is  languishing.    There  was  a  brightness, 

How  high,  and  yet  how  soothing  in  her  smile. 

O !  I  could  look  on  her,  a  summer's  day, 

Delighted — every  moment  more  delighted, 

With  the  soft  sense  that  hovers  over  me, 

When  on  a  slope  of  moss,  I  lay  me  down 

In  the  warm  sun  of  April.    I  could  kneel 

In  worship  to  her,  as  a  radiant  vision 

Sent  from  a  purer  world,  without  a  stain 

Of  earth  breathed  over  her,  but  all  entire 

In  infant  loveliness,  yet  ripe  and  full 

In  her  meridian  elegance,  a  flower 

With  all  its  leaves  expanded,  and  its  hues 

Mellowed  by  kindly  sunbeams. 

It  was  evening ; — 

The  sun  looked  through  the  wood  of  chesnut  trees, 
And  bronzed  their  rugged  trunks,  and  lit  their  leaves, 
Till,  as  they  rustled  on  the  bending  boughs, 
Each  seemed  a  flake  of  gold ;  and  far  beyond  them 
My  eye  caught  glimpses  of  a  quiet  bay, 
A  nook  of  sleeping  waters,  where  the  light, 
Shone  with  a  flashing  blaze.    It  was  so  still ! 


153 

The  wind  had  stolen  into  the  mountain  valleys, 
And  left  the  plains  and  hillocks  to  the  calm, 
That  sinks  upon  the  world,  when  night  steals  on, 
And  the  day  takes  its  farewell,  like  the  words 
Of  a  departing  friend,  or  the  last  tone 
Of  hallowed  music,  in  a  minster's  aisles, 
Heard,  when  it  floats  along  the  shade  of  elms, 
In  the  still  place  of  graves.     A  wood  of  palms 
Rose  on  a  far  hill,  where  the  amber  light 
Was  rich  and  dazzling,  with  their  pointed  leaves 
So  nicely  balanced,  that  the  faintest  breathing 
Of  the  wide  air  swayed  them  in  graceful  curves; 
While  all  below  seemed  in  the  still  repose 
Of  sleep,  the  twin  of  death,  that  infant  slumber, 
Where  life  is  only  visible  in  the  play 
Of  blushes,  which  forever  come  and  go 
On  the  soft  cheek's  transparency,  as  pure 
As  the  clear  rime,  that  masks  the  untimely  rose, 
Mellowing  its  purple  to  the  hues  of  heaven, 
The  tremulous  tints  of  air. 

I  lay  abroad 

In  careless  dreaming,  by  the  twisted  roots 
Of  an  outspreading  beech-tree,  and  methought, 
The  swains  of  Enna  and  Parthenope 
Were  dancing  round  me  to  the  sound  of  viols 
And  oaten  pipes.    As  the  light  sank  away, 
The  rose  and  jasmine  thickets,  and  the  shades 
O'erhung  with  vines,  in  the  full  scent  of  flowers, 
Seemed  populous  with  the  silvan  family 


154 

Of  nymphs  and  fauns.    I  listened  to  the  sounds 

Of  Grecian  melody  and  song,  and  lay 

Reclining  on  a  couch  of  new  plucked  leaves, 

Attentive  to  the  many  quiet  voices, 

That  fill  a  summer's  night — the  drowsy  hum 

Of  beetles,  and  the  shrill  cicada's  song, 

And  the  complaining  of  the  nightingale, 

That  in  a  bush  of  brambles,  passed  away 

The  silent  hours,  in  answering  to  the  echoes, 

Herself  had  made.     As  thus  I  sank  away 

In  pleasant  thoughts  of  the  dear  times  of  old, 

I  saw  a  group  of  dancers,  on  a  lawn 

Not  distant,  to  the  music  of  a  lute 

Cross  the  yet  rosy  twilight.    She  was  there, 

Lovelier  for  the  witching  time,  they  chose 

To  be  their  hour  of  joy.    Her  full  dark  curls 

Were  clustered  on  a  brow  of  ivory, 

And  fell  in  lavish  wealth,  shading  a  neck 

Clear  as  an  alabaster  shrine  concealing 

A  ruby,  that  with  soft  suffusion  fills  it, 

As  with  a  living  glow.    Her  face  was  kindled 

By  the  quick  glances  of  her  large  black  eyes, 

That  flashed  from  underneath  her  arching  brows, 

Like  gems  in  caves ;  and  yet  there  was  a  softness 

At  times,  when  shades  of  thought  stole  over  her — 

But  in  the  happy  consciousness  of  beauty 

Her  heart  was  all  so  joyous,  that  her  smiles 

Gave  a  perpetual  sunlight  to  that  face, 

So  beautiful,  to  see  it  was  to  love. 

I  could  not  choose  but  watch  with  earnest  gaze 


155 

One  of  so  perfect  form,  and  finished  grace, 
That  those  who  moved  around  her,  were  but  foils 
Heightening  the  one  sole  diamonds     When  I  look 
On  one  so  fair,  I  must  believe  that  Heaven 
Sent  her  in  kindness,  that  our  hearts  might  waken 
To  its  own  loveliness,  and  lift  themselves 
By  such  an  adoration  from  a  dark 
And  grovelling  world.    Such  beauty  should  be  wor- 
shipped, 

And  not  a  thought  of  weakness  or  decay 
Should  mingle  with  the  pure  and  hallowed  dreams, 
In  which  it  dwells  before  us.     It  should  live 
Eternal ;  or,  if  it  must  pass  away, 
And  lose  one  tint  of  its  now  perfect  brightness, 
Let  it  be  hidden  from  me,  for  the  sense, 
That  all  this  glow  must  fade,  falls  on  my  heart, 
Like  the  cold  weight  of  death. 


THE  VENETIAN  GONDOLIER. 

Here  rest  the  weary  oar ! — soft  airs 
Breathe  out  in  the  o'erarching  sky ; 

And  Night ! — sweet  Night — serenely  wears 
A  smile  of  peace ; — her  noon  is  nigh. 

Where  the  tall  fir  in  quiet  stands, 
And  waves,  embracing  the  chaste  shores, 


156 

Move  o'er  sea-shells  and  bright  sands, — 
Is  heard  the  sound  of  dipping  oars. 

Swift  o'er  the  wave  the  light  bark  springs, 
Love's  midnight  hour  draws  lingering  near : 

And  list ! — his  tuneful  viol  strings 
The  young  Venetian  Gondolier. 

Lo !  on  the  silver-mirrored  deep, 
On  earth,  and  her  embosomed  lakes, 

And  where  the  silent  rivers  sweep — 
From  the  thin  cloud  fair  moonlight  breaks. 

Soft  music  breaths  around,  and  dies 

On  the  calm  bosom  of  the  sea ; 
Whilst  in  her  cell  the  novice  sighs 

Her  vespers  to  her  rosary. 

At  their  dim  altars  bow  fair  forms, 

In  tender  charity  for  those, 
That,  helpless  left  to  life's  rude  storms, 

Have  never  found  this  calm  repose. 

The  bell  swings  to  its  midnight  chime, 
Relieved  against  the  deep  blue  sky ! — 

Haste! — dip  the  oar  again! — 'tis  time 
To  seek  Genevra's  balcony. 


157 

EUTHANASIA. 

My  hour  has  come,  I  lay  me  down 

With  the  dark  grave  in  view ; 

And  hoping  for  a  heavenly  crown, 

I  bid  the  world  adieu. 

The  angry  forms  of  earth  are  fled, 

The  gentle  in  decay ; 

For  me  no  golden  beams  are  shed, 

My  eyes  are  closed  for  aye. 

One  sense  remains.    I  feel  a  hand 
That  gently  grasps  my  own ; 
I  deem  it  one  by  sorrow  fanned, 
So  tremulous  its  tone. 
If  it  be  thine,  my  gentle  bride ! 
Grieve  not  thy  fond  heart  thus ; 
For,  though  the  grave  awhile  divide, 
Death  opens  a  Heaven  to  us. 

I  asked  of  God  an  easy  death, 

And  he  has  heard  my  prayer ; 

My  soul  ebbs  like  the  zephyr's  breatk 

When  noon- day  calms  the  air. 

A  little  throbbing  of  my  heart 

Weak  as  an  infant's  cry ; — 

If  thus  life's  links  are  rent  apart 

Why  are  we  loth  to  die  ? 

I  deemed  of  tortures  in  death's  hour, 

Of  fevered  brain  and  limb. 
O 


158 

And  of  unearthly  forms  that  lower, 

When  the  eye  waxes  dim. 

My  dreams. in  death  have  other  mould, 

Forms  beautiful  and  bright 

Are  with  me — not  the  beaten  gold 

Shines  like  those  shapes  of  light. 

I'm  sinking  as  a  bird  on  wing 

Drops  from  his  soaring  high ; 

Comes  to  my  tongue  a  faltering, 

And  darkness  to  my  eye. 

Oh  !  lift  the  mighty  hill  of  snow 

From  off  my  frozen  breast; 

I  come — the  scene  is  closed  below. 

And  I  enjoy  a  rest. 


A  SONG  OVER  THE  GRAVE  OF  A  LOVER. 

Aye,  flowers  may  glow 
In  new  born  beauty,  and  the  rosy  spring 
To  deck  the  earth  its  sparkling  wreaths  may  bringv 

But  where  art  thou  ? 

The  early  bloom 

Of  flowers  in  freshest  infancy  I  wreathe, 
Their  transient  life  of  fragrancy  to  breathe 

Upon  thy  tomb. 


159 

And  I  have  sought 

The  lowly  violet,  that  in  shade  appears, 
Shrinking  from  view  like  young  love's  tender  fears, 

With  sweetness  fraught ; 

And  rosebuds  too, 

Crimson  as  young  Aurora's  blush,  or  white 
As  woman's  cheek  when  touched  by  sorrow's  blight, 

O'er  thee  I  strew ; 

And  flowers,  that  close 

Their  buds  beneath  the  sun,  but  pure  and  pale 
Ope  their  sweet  blossom  'neath  the  dewy  veil, 

That  evening  throws. 

The  fragrant  leaves 

Of  the  white  lily  too  with  these  I  twine — 
The  drooping  lily — that  seems  born  to  shine 

Where  true  love  grieves. 

There  will  be  none 

To  deck  thy  grave  with  flowers,  and  chant  for  thee 
These  snatches  of  remembered  melody, 

When  I  am  gone. 

But  thou  shalt  have 

A  gift  more  precious  than  the  buds  I  fling — 
A  broken  heart ! — my  latest  offering 
Upon  thy  grave. 


160 

REFORMED  TOM  BELL. 

I  never  knew  a  man  profaner 

Than  him  they  call  reformed  Tom  Bell ; 

Or  one  who  more  became  a  gainer 

In  worldly  goods  by  arts  of  hell. 

He  cheated  all,  but  most  affected 

Those  easiest  ruined  by  his  guile ; 

If  he  but  found  one  unprotected, 

Few  were  his  years  and  brief  his  smile. 

His  father — mother  died  of  sorrow 

Brought  on  by  his  unkind  career, 

His  wives,  one,  two,  three,  could  not  borrow 

Of  nuptial  life,  a  single  year. 

And  many  a  maiden,  fondly  trusting, 

Heard  in  his  vow  her  funeral  knell ; 

And  many  an  orphan  with  heart  bursting, 

Asked  heaven  for  vengeance  on  Tom  Bell. 

And  as  for  orisons  and  preaching 

In  the  bright  temple  where  man  soars, 

Tom  would  be  sooner  seen  beseeching 

For  entrance  at  a  wanton's  doors. 

He  held  religion  "  a  mere  bubble, 

An  idle  tale  made  by  the  priest ; 

Got  up  to  gull  with  little  trouble 

The  loving  fools  who  would  be  fleeced." 

And  thus  Tom  Bell  went  on  despising 
Religion,  virtue,  God,  and  good ; 


161 

He  cared  not,  s6  his  wealth  kept  rising-, 
How  other  debts  and  credits  stood. 
He  came  to  thirty,  vile  as  ever, 
One— two  were  added,  half  a  third, 
When  lo !  Tom  Bell,  the  unbeliever, 
Became  a  lover  of  the  Word. 

It  was  a  night  in  cold  November, 
Five  days  or  more  before  its  close, 
When  shrill-voiced  winds  the  oaks  dismember, 
And  hazy  clouds  foretel  the  snows  ; 
When  beasts  go  to  their  coverts  creeping, 
When  birds  of  passage  seek  mild  skies, 
When  the  rough  waves  the  cliffs  are  sweeping, 
There  stood  a  form  before  his  eyes. 

He  sat,  that  awful  moment,  resting 
Upon  a  bank  of  leafless  firs, 
Watching  to  see  a  soft  form  breasting 
The  chilly  night-wind,  even  her's. 
When  all  at  once  as  he  sits  gazing, 
He  feels  the  air  grow  deadly  cold  ; 
And  he  beholds  a  tall  form  raising 
Itself  from  out  the  frozen  mould. 

Its  dress  was  white,  damp,  grave-clothes  flowing 
All  heavily  upon  the  gale  ; 
Its  eyes  no  more  with  life  were  glowing, 
Its  brow  was  ghastly,  and  cheek  pale. 
Jt  bent  itself,  that  cold  corse,  o'er  him, 
Upon  his  shoulder  laid  its  hand  ; 
02 


102 

With  this  thing  from  the  tombs  before  him 
All  shuddering  did  the  sinner  stand. 

And  when  it  spoke,  its  tones  were  hollow  ;- 
"  What  dost  thou  here,  this  chilly  night  ? 
Why,  base  seducer,  dost  thou  follow 
A  gentle  girl,  to  work  her  blight? 
I  perished  by  thy  base  pursuing, 
Does  not  thy  soul  my  secret  tell  ? 
The  earliest  victim  of  thy  wooing — 
Thou  know'st  me  now,  lost  Isabel. 

I  come,  bad  man,  to  give  thee  warning, 
Thy  sins  cry  out,  and  Justice  hears ; 
Nor  would'st  thou  see  another  morning, 
Did  not  fair  Mercy  plead  with  tears. 
But  oh !  her  voice  is  growing  weaker, 
Her  pleas  are  by  thy  sinnings  crost, 
She  blushes  to  become  the  seeker 
For  grace  on  thee — she  deems  thee  lost. 

If  by  the  time  that  morn  discovers 
Her  yellow  light  to  the  brown  hills, 
No  guardian  angel  o'er  thee  hovers, 
No  other  spirit  thy  frame  fills, 
Thou  shalt  lie  low ;  and  ere  the  going 
Of  the  bright  sun  adown  the  West, 
By  him  that  said  it — the  All-knowing. 
Thou  shalt  be  gone,  but  not  to  rest." 


163 

'T  is  hushed  ;  he  looks  with  horror  round  him ; 

There 's  but  himself  with  life  that  stirs  ; 

One  groan,  and  the  next  moment  found  him, 

Lying  low  beneath  the  nodding  firs. 

And  then,  while  the  cold  moon  was  shedding 

Her  silver  light  on  the  brown  sod, 

And  twinkling  stars  their  maze  were  threading, 

He,  weeping,  thus  addressed  his  God. 

"  I  kneel — to  pray — I  who  have  never 
Yet  knelt  in  prayer,  kneel  to  beseech 
Forgiveness  ;  Thou  did?st  say  that  ever 
Thy  pardon  penitence  should  reach. 
Now  in  the  dust  behold  me  humbled, 
And  shuddering  at  thy  just  rage  lie  ; 
The  worm  that  feeds  on  bodies  crumbled 
Is  better  in  thy  sight  than  I. 

All-righteous  Judge !  recall  thy  sentence, 
Allow  me  time  to  mend  my  ways ; 
And  as  I  show  or  not  repentance, 
So  lengthen,  or  abridge  my  days. 
If  that  my  heart  still  cleaves  to  errors. 
Then  execute  thy  named  decree ; 
But  if  I  mend,  O !   veil  thy  terrors, 
And  look  with  eyes  of  love  on  me." 

He  ceased.    Whose  are  the  tones  that  greet  him 
Soft  as  the  gentle  gales  of  spring  ? 
1T  is  she  who  comes,  weak  girl !  to  meet  him, 
As 't  were  upon  a  plover's  wing. 


164 

He  answers  not  her  fond  caresses, 
But  with  mild  speech  he  bids  her  go ; 
And  says  "  tomorrow  braid  thy  tresses, 
And  deck  thyself  for  bridal  show." 

'T  is  morn,  there 's  frolic  in  the  hamlet, 
The  rustics'  joys  to  transports  swell ; 
And  many  a  cheek  as  brown  as  camlet, 
Goes  to  the  nuptials  of  Tom  Bell. 
He's  changed,  they  see,  he  checks  their  riot, 
He  speaks  of  foul  paths  he  has  trod ; 
And  in  his  face  there  reigns  the  quiet 
Of  one  at  peace  with  a  kind  God. 

Now  evermore  at  the  broad  chancel, 
He  wakes  the  earliest  anthem's  swell ; 
Nor  with  hymns  only  does  he  cancel 
His  debts  with  Justice — he  lives  well. 
His  beds  have  pillows  for  the  weary, 
His  wardrobe  garments  for  the  poor, 
He  makes  the  hungry  orphan  cheery, 
He  reads  the  Scriptures  to  the  boor. 

At  home,  abroad,  dry,  wet,  night,  morning, 
'T  is  all  the  same,  he 's  ever  calm, 
Each  day  with  some  new  trait  adorning 
Poor  nature — gathering  stores  of  balm. 
And  far  and  wide  his  praise  is  sounding; 
His  good  deeds  distant  cities  tell ; 
And  slanderers  who  delight  in  wounding 
Say  nought  against  Reformed  Tom  Bell. 


165 

A  MOOR'S  CURSE  ON  SPAIN. 

With  tearful  eyes  and  swelling  hearts,  they  leave 

Grenada's  gate, 
And  the  wind  blows  fair  to  waft  their  barks  across 

the  narrow  strait ; 
They  have  hoisted  sail,  and  they  are  gone, — the  last 

of  all  the  Moors, 
Whom  bigot  zeal  hath  banished  from  their  much-loved 

Spanish  shores. 

The  remnants  of  those  warlike  tribes,  who  trode  on 
Spanish  necks, 

Whom,  name  you  to  Castilian  ears,  if  you  delight  to 
vex; 

Now  broken,  not  by  sword  and  spear,  but  papal  racks 
alone, 

They  go,  to  found,  where  Dido  reigned,  another  Mos- 
lem throne. 

There  stood  upon  the  deck  a  Moor,  who  had  to  Mecca 

been, 
Whose  hoary  hair  proclaimed  his  years  beyond  three 

score  and  ten. 

He  had  tasted  of  the  water  of  Zemzeim's  holy  well, 
And  could  read  the  monarch's  magic  ring,  and  speak 

the  direful  spell. 

And  there  he  watched,  that  aged  man,  till  they  had 
Calpe  past, 


166 

And  saw,  with  eye  of  boding  gloom,  the  land  reced- 
ing fast. 

"  Blow,  blow  ye  winds,  and  waft  us  from  Xeres'  glo- 
rious plain, 

Then  be  ye  calm,  while  I  pronounce  a  Moor's  curse 
on  Spain. 

"Thou  did'st  bow,  Spain,  for  ages,  beneath  a  Moorish 

yoke, 
And  save  Asturia's  mountain  sons,  there  were  none 

to  strike  a  stroke ; 
On  mountain  top  and  lowland  plain,  thy  fate  was  still 

the  same, 
Thy  soldiers  drew  dull  scymitars,  and  the  crescent 

overcame. 

"  The  days,  which  saw  our  martial  deeds,  are  fled  to 

come  no  more ; 
A  warrior  monarch  rules  thee  now,  and  we  give  the 

battle  o'er ; 

Abencarrage  wakes  not,  when  the  battle  trumpets  call, 
And  Abderame  sleeps  in  death,  beside  th'  Alhambra's 

wall. 

"  I  leave  to  thee,  my  curse,  proud  Spain !   a  curse 

upon  thy  clime ; 
Thou  shalt  be  the  land  of  dastard  souls,  a  nursery  of 

crime ; 
And  yet,  as  if  to  mock  her  sons,  and  make  their  dark 

doom  worse. 


167 

No  land  shall  boast  more  glorious  skies,  than  the  lovely 
land  I  curse. 

"  Thy  kings  shall  wear  no  royal  type,  save  a  diadem 

alone, 
And  their  sovereignty  by  cruelty  and  a  withering  eye 

be  known. 
'T  were  waste  of  time  to  speak  my  curse  ;  for,  Spain, 

thy  sons  shall  see, 
That  magic  can  invoke  no  fiend,  worse  than  thy  kings 

will  be. 

"  And  that  blind  faith,  thou  boldest  from  the  Prophet 

of  the  Cross, 
A  faith  thy  children  have  profaned,  and  its  better 

doctrines  lost ; 
By  the  lords  that  faith  shall  give  thee,  not  less  shalt 

thou  be  gored, 
Because  they  grasp  a  crucifix,  instead  of  spear  and 

sword. 

"  Bright  eyes  are  in  thy  land,  Spain,  and  thy  virgins 

want  no  charms, 
But  thou  art  cursed  to  know  no  truth  in  either  heart 

or  arms ; 
Their  bosoms  shall  no  pillow  be,  for  aught  is  kind  or 

brave,  * 

But  lull  in  mere  illicit  love,  the  sensual  priest  and  slave. 

"  Thy  sway  shall  reach  to  distant  lands,  shall  yield 
thee  gold  and  gem, 


168 

But  a  burning  and  a  bloody  sword,  shall  thy  sceptre 

be  o'er  them, 
Till  vengeance  meet  the  murderous  bands,  from  thine 

accursed  shore, 
And  give  them  of  the  land  they  seek, — a  grave  of 

clotted  gore." 

The  Guadalquiver's  banks  shall  be  divested  of  their 

pride, 
The  castles  of  our  valiant  race  deck  no  more  the 

mountain  side, 
And  Ruin's  mouldering  hand  shall  sweep  to  Spain's 

remotest  shore, 
And  all  her  fertile  regions  weep  the  exile  of  the  Moor. 


THE  SEA  DIVER, 

My  way  is  on  the  bright  blue  sea, 
My  sleep  upon  its  rocking  tide  ; 

And  many  an  eye  has  followed  me 
Where  billows  clasp  the  worn  sea-side. 

My  plumage  bears  the  crimson  blush, 
When  ocean  by  the  sun  is  kissed  ! 

When  fades  the  evening's  purple  flush, 
My  dark  wing  cleaves  the  silver  mist, 


169 

Pull  many  a  fathom  down  beneath 
The  bright  arch  of  the  splendid  deep, 

My  ear  has  heard  the  sea  shell  breathe 
O'er  living  myriads  in  their  sleep. 

They  rested  by  the  coral  throne, 

And  by  the  pearly  diadem, 
Where  the  pale  sea-grape  had  o'ergrown 

The  glorious  dwellings  made  for  them. 

At  night  upon  my  storm-drenched  wing, 
I  poised  above  a  helmless  bark, 

And  soon  I  saw  the  shattered  thing 
Had  passed  away  and  left  no  mark. 

And  when  the  wind  and  storm  had  done, 
A  ship,  that  had  rode  out  the  gale, 

Sunk  down — without  a  signal  gun, 
And  none  was  left  to  tell  the  tale. 

I  saw  the  pomp  of  day  depart, — 
The  cloud  resign  its  golden  crown, 

When  to  the  ocean's  beating  heart, 
The  sailor's  wasted  corse  went  down. 

Peace  be  to  those  whosevgraves  are  made 

Beneath  the  bright  and  silver  sea  ! — 
Peace  that  their  relics  there  were  laid 

With  no  vain  pride  and  pageantry. 
P 


170 

SARDANAPALCJS  AT  THE  TEMPLE  OF  BELUS. 

This  spacious  mausoleum  holds 

Proud  dust  in  many  a  worshipped  shrine  ; 
Yon  massive  golden  urn  enfolds 

The  Founder  of  our  line. 
In  gloomy  grandeur,  here  are  laid 
The  gods,  our  regal  race  have  made. 

Yes,  here  are  sleeping  side  by  side 

The  gods,  Assyrian  queens  have  borne  : 

Warriors  of  madmen  deified, 
And  tyrants  overthrown. 

Why,  since  my  sires  are  all  divine, 

Am  I,  their  son,  without  a  shrine  ? 

I  have  unto  my  people  been 

A  father,  brother  and  a  friend ! 
Go  to  the  Western  Island-men — 

Go  eastward  to  mine  empire's  end  : 
If  there  be  one  hath  wrong  of  me, 
Him,  fourfold  recompense  shall  see. 

I  loved  the  glittering  javelin  not — 

I  did  not  love  war's  bloody  suit ; 
I  left  the  field  where  nations  fought, 

To  listen  to  the  lute  ; 
I  passed  the  prancing  war-horse  by, 
To  gaze  at  beauty's  melting  eye. 


171 

I  never  crushed  Assyria's  sons 
To  build  Colossal  temples  high  ; 

I  bade  the  sire  his  little  ones 
Watch  with  a  parent's  eye. 

Throughout  the  land  no  vassal  strives 

With  a  hard  lord,  nor  wears  his  gyves. 

I  bade  my  subjects  plant  the  vine 

Throughout  the  realms  my  sceptre  sways ; 
And  bade  them  drink  the  joyous  wine, 

A  feandst  away  their  days. 
Sardanapalus  thence  hath  lost 
His  golden  shrine  and  holocaust. 

For  had  I  made  the  rivers  dance 
With  waves  of  blood  from  prostrate  foes ; 

And  couched  a  warrior's  murdering  lance, 
And  broke  my  land's  repose  ; 

Then  had  my  glory  walked  abroad 

And  I  had  been  enshrined  a  god. 

What  else  but  wide-spread  carnage  made 
The  founder  of  our  line  a  god  ; — 

A  man,  whose  dark  ambition  bade 
Earth  be  a  crimsoned  sod  ; 

A  bloody  hunter,  yet  behold  ! 

His  shrine  is  of  thrice  beaten  gold. 

And  she,  the  queen  of  Belus'  son, 
Who  built  this  sanctuary  high, 


172 

And  planned  it — proud  presuming  one ! 
With  roof-tree  laid  against  the  sky ; 
Because  she  loved  war, — when  she  died 
Wide  realms  her  queenship  deified. 

But  I,  because  my  regal  day 

Hath  been  arrayed  in  pleasure's  dress  : 
Because  I  loved  soft  music's  lay 

And  beauty's  dear  caress  ; 
Because  I  women  loved,  and  wine, 
Am  thence  to  be  denied  a  shrine. 


FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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